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RAINBOW VALLEY 



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To 


the memory of 

roTDWlN LAPP, ROBERT BROOKES 

LANO 

that the be kept sacred from 

the ravage of the invader 


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CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. Home Again i 

II. Sheer Gossip 7 

III. The Ingleside Children .... 21 

IV. The Manse Children 30 

V. The Advent oe Mary Vance ... 43 

VI. Mary Stays at the Manse .... 61 

VII. A Fishy Episode 68 

VIII. Miss Cornelia Intervenes .... 78 

IX. Una Intervenes 88 

X. The Manse Girls Clean House . . 102 

XI. A Dreadful Discovery 112 

XII. An Explanation AND A Dare . . . 118 

XHI. The House on the Hill 129 

XIV. Mrs. Alec Davis Makes a Call . . 142 

XV. More Gossip 154 

XVI. Tit for Tat 165 

XVII. A Double Victory 182 

XVIII. Mary Brings Evil Tidings .... 195 

XIX. Poor Adam! 202 

XX. Faith Makes a Friend 208 

XXI. The Impossible Word 216 

XXII. St. George Knows All About It . . 229 

XXIII. The Good-Conduct Club .... 237 

vii 


CONTENTS 


viii 

CHAPTER PAGE 

XXIV. A Charitable Impulse 252 

XXV. Another Scandal and Another ^‘Ex- 
planation” 262 

XXVI. Miss Cornelia Gets a New Point of 

View 271 

XXVII. A Sacred Concert 281 

XXVIII. A Fast Day 287 

XXIX. A Weird Tale 293 

XXX. The Ghost on the Dyke .... 298 

XXXI. Carl Does Penance 305 

XXXII. Two Stubborn People 312 

XXXIII. Carl Is — Not — ^Whipped . . . . 321 

XXXIV. Una Visrr.s the Hill 329 

XXXV. “Let the Piper Come” 337 


RAINBOW VALLEY 



RAINBOW VALLEY 


CHAPTER I 
Home Again 

I T was a clear, apple-green evening in May, and 
Four Winds Harbour was mirroring back the 
clouds of the golden west between its softly dark 
shores. The sea moaned eerily on the sand-bar, sor- 
rowful even in spring, but a sly, jovial wind came pip- 
ing down the red harbour road along which Miss Cor- 
nelia's comfortable, matronly figure was making its 
way towards the village of Glen St. Mary. Miss 
Cornelia was rightfully Mrs. Marshall Elliott, and had 
been Mrs. Marshall Elliott for thirteen years, but even 
yet more people referred to her as Miss Cornelia than 
as Mrs. Elliott. The old name was dear to her old 
friends; only one of them contemptuously dropped it. 
Susan Baker, the gray and grim and faithful hand- 
maiden of the Blythe family at Ingleside, never lost 
an opportunity of calling her *'Mrs. Marshall Elliott," 
with the most killing and pointed emphasis, as if to 
say “You wanted to be Mrs. and Mrs. you shall be with 
a vengeance as far as I am concerned." 

Miss Cornelia was going up to Ingleside to see Dr. 
and Mrs. Blythe, who were just home from Europe. 


2 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


They had been away for three months, having left in 
February to attend a famous medical congress in Lon- 
don; and certain things, which Miss Cornelia was 
anxious to discuss, had taken place in the Glen during 
their absence. For one thing, there was a new family 
in the manse. And such a family! Miss Cornelia 
shook her head over them several times as she walked 
briskly along. 

Susan Baker and the Anne Shirley of other days 
saw her coming, as they sat on the big veranda at 
Ingleside, enjoying the charm of the cat’s light, the 
sweetness of sleepy robins whistling among the twilit 
maples, and the dance of a gusty group of daffodils 
blowing against the old, mellow, red brick wall of the 
lawn. 

Anne was sitting on the steps, her hands clasped 
over her knee, looking, in the kind dusk, as girlis-h as 
a mother of many has any right to be ; and the beauti- 
ful gray-green eyes, gazing down the harbour road, 
were as full of unquenchable sparkle and dream as 
ever. Behind her, in the hammock, Rilla Blythe was 
curled up, a fat, roly-poly little creature of six years, 
the youngest of the Ingleside children. She had curly 
red hair and hazel eyes that were now buttoned up after 
the funny, wrinkled fashion in which Rilla always went 
to sleep. 

Shirley, “the little brown boy,” as he was known in 
the family “Who’s Who,” was asleep in Susan’s arms. 
He was brown-haired, brown-eyed and brown-skinned. 


HOME AGAIN 


3 

with very rosy cheeks, and he was Susan’s especial love. 
After his birth Anne had been very ill for a long time, 
and Susan ''mothered” the baby with a passionate 
tenderness which none of the other children, dear as 
they were to her, had ever called out. Dr, Blythe had 
said that but for her he would never have lived. 

"I gave him life just as much as you did, Mrs. Dr. 
dear,” Susan was wont to say. "He is just as much 
my baby as he is yours.” And, indeed, it was always 
to Susan that Shirley ran, to be kissed for bumps, and 
rocked to sleep, and protected from well-deserved 
spankings. Susan had conscientiously spanked all the 
other Blythe children when she thought they needed it 
for their souls’ good, but she would not spank Shirley 
nor allow his mother to do it. Once, Dr. Blythe had 
spanked him and Susan had been stormily indignant. 

"That man would spank an angel, Mrs. Dr. dear, 
that he would,” she had declared bitterly; and she 
would not make the poor doctor a pie for weeks. 

She had taken Shirley with her to her brother’s 
home during his parents’ absence, while all the other 
children had gone to Avonlea, and she had three 
blessed months of him all to herself. Nevertheless, 
Susan was very glad to find herself back at Ingleside, 
with all her darlings around her again. Ingleside was 
her world and in it she reigned supreme. Even Anne 
seldom questioned her decisions, much to the disgust 
of Mrs. Rachel Lynde of Green Gables, who gloomily 
told Anne, whenever she visited Four Winds, that she 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


4 

was letting Susan get to be entirely too much of a boss 
and would live to rue it. 

‘'Here is Cornelia Bryant coming up the harbour 
road, Mrs. Dr. dear,’’ said Susan. “She will be com- 
ing to unload three months’ gossip on us.” 

“I hope so,” said Anne, hugging her knees. “I’m 
starving for Glen St. Mary gossip, Susan. I hope 
Miss Cornelia can tell me everything that has happened 
while we’ve been away — everything — who has got 
born, or married, or drunk; who has died, or gone 
away, or come, or fought, or lost a cow, or found a 
beau. It’s so delightful to be home again with all the 
dear Glen folks, and I want to know all about them. 
Why, I remember wondering, as I walked through 
Westminster Abbey which of her two especial l^eaus 
Millicent Drew would finally marry. Do you know, 
Susan, I have a dreadful suspicion that I love gossip.” 

“Well, of course, Mrs. Dr. dear,” admitted Susan, 
“every proper woman likes to hear the news. I am 
rather interested in Millicent Drew’s case myself. I 
never had a beau, much less two, and I do not mind 
now, for being an old maid does not hurt when you get 
used to it. Millicent’s hair always looks to me as if 
she had swept it up with a broom. But the men do not 
seem to mind that.” 

“They see only her pretty, piquant, mocking, little 
face, Susan.” 

“That may very well be, Mrs. Dr. dear. The Good 
Book says that favour is deceitful and beauty is vain. 


HOME AGAIN 


5 

but I should not have minded finding that out for my- 
self, if it had been so ordained. I have no doubt we 
will all be beautiful when we are angels, but what good 
will- it do us then? Speaking of gossip, however, they 
do say that poor Mrs. Harrison Miller over harbour 
tried to hang herself last week.’’ 

‘^Oh, Susan!” 

“Calm yourself, Mrs. Dr. dear. She did not suc- 
ceed. But I really do not blame her for trying, for her 
husband is a terrible man. But she was very foolish 
to think of hanging herself and leaving the way clear 
for him to marry some other woman. If I had been in 
her shoes, Mrs. Dr. dear, I would have gone to work 
to worry him so that he would try to hang himself in- 
stead of me. Not that I hold with people hanging 
themselves under any circumstances, Mrs. Dr. dear.” 

“What is the matter with Harrison Miller, any- 
way?” said Anne impatiently. “He is always driving 
some one to extremes.” 

“Well, some people call it religion and some call it 
cussedness, begging your pardon, Mrs. Dr. dear, for 
using such a word. It seems they cannot make out 
which it is in Harrison’s case. There are days when 
he growls at everybody because he thinks he is fore- 
ordained to eternal punishment. And then there are 
days when he says he does not care and goes and gets 
drunk. My own opinion is that he is not sound in his 
intellect, for none of that branch of the Millers were. 
His grandfather went out of his mind. He thought 


6 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


he was surrounded by big black spiders. They crawled 
over him and floated in the air about him. I hope I 
shall never go insane, Mrs. Dr. dear, and I do not think 
I will, because it is not a habit of the Bakers. But, if 
an all-wise Providence should decree it, I hope it will 
not take the form of big black spiders, for I loathe the 
animals. As for Mrs. Miller, I do not know whether 
she really deserves pity or not. There are some who 
say she just married Harrison to spite Richard Taylor, 
which seems to me a very peculiar reason for getting 
married. But then, of course, / am no judge of things 
matrimonial, Mrs. Dr. dear. And there is Cornelia 
Bryant at the gate, so I will put this blessed brown 
baby on his bed and get my knitting.” 


CHAPTER II 
Sheer Gossip 

*‘TT THERE are the other children?” asked Miss 

V V Cornelia, when the first greetings — cordial 
on her side, rapturous on Anne’s, and dignified on 
Susan’s — were over. 

‘‘Shirley is in bed and Jem and Walter and the twins 
are down in their beloved Rainbow Valley,” said Anne. 
“They just came home this afternoon, you know, and 
they could hardly wait until supper was over before 
rushing down to the valley. They love it above every 
spot on earth. Even the maple grove doesn’t rival it 
in their affections.” 

“I am afraid they love it too well,” said Susan 
gloomily. “Little Jem said once he would rather go 
to Rainbow Valley than to heaven when he died, and 
that was not a proper remark.” 

“I suppose they had a great time in Avonlea?” said 
Miss Cornelia. 

“Enormous. Marilla does spoil them terribly. Jem, 
in particular, can do no wrong in her eyes.” 

“Miss Cuthbert must be an old lady now,” said Miss 
Cornelia, getting out her knitting, so that she could 
hold her own with Susan. Miss Cornelia held that 
the woman whose hands were employed always had the 
advantage over the woman whose hands were not. 

7 


8 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


‘‘Manila is eighty-five/’ said Anne with a sigh. 
“Her hair is snow-white. But, strange to say, her eye- 
sight is better than it was when she was sixty.” 

“Well, dearie. I’m real glad you’re all back. I’ve 
been dreadful lonesome. But we haven’t been dull in 
the Glen, believe me. There hasn’t been such an ex- 
citing spring in my time, as far as church matters go. 
We’ve got settled with a minister at last, Anne, dearie.” 

“The Reverend John Knox Meredith, Mrs. Dr. 
dear,” said Susan, resolved not to let Miss Cornelia 
tell all the news. 

“Is he nice ?” asked Anne interestedly. 

Miss Cornelia sighed and Susan groaned. 

“Yes, he’s nice enough if that was all,” said the 
former. “He is very nice — and very learned — and 
very spiritual. But, oh Anne, dearie, he has no com- 
mon sense!” 

“How was it you called him, then?” 

“Well, there’s no doubt he is by far the best preacher 
we ever had in Glen St. Mary church,” said Miss Cor- 
nelia, veering a tack or two. “I suppose it is because 
he is so moony and absent minded that he never got a 
town call. His trial sermon was simply wonderful, 
believe me. Every one went mad about it — and his 
looks.” 

“He is very comely, Mrs. Dr. dear, and when all is 
said and done, I do like to see a well-looking man in 
the pulpit,” broke in Susan, thinking it was time she 
asserted herself again. 


SHEER GOSSIP 


9 

‘‘Besides/’ said Miss Cornelia, “we were anxious to 
get settled. And Mr. Meredith was the first candidate 
we were all agreed on. Somebody had some objection 
to all the others. There was some talk of calling Mr. 
Folsom. He was a good preacher, too, but somehow 
people didn’t care for his appearance. He was too 
dark and sleek.” 

“He looked exactly like a great black tom-cat, that 
he did, Mrs. Dr. dear,” said Susan. “I never could 
abide such a man in the pulpit every Sunday.” 

“Then Mr. Rogers came and he was like a chip in 
porridge^neither harm nor good,” resumed Miss 
Cornelia. “But if he had preached like Peter and Paul 
it would have profited him nothing, for that was the 
day old Caleb Ramsay’s sheep strayed into church and 
gave a loud ‘ba-a-a’ just as he announced his text. 
Everybody laughed, and poor Rogers had no chance 
after that. Some thought we ought to call Mr. 
Stewart, because he was so well educated. He could 
read the New Testament in five languages.” 

“But I do not think he was any surer than other men 
of getting to heaven because of that,” interjected 
Susan. 

“Most of us didn’t like his delivery,” said Miss 
Cornelia, ignoring Susan. “He talked in grunts, so to 
speak. And Mr. Arnett couldn’t preach at all. And 
he picked about the worst candidating text there is in 
the Bible — ‘Curse ye, Meroz.’ ” 

“Whenever he got stuck for an idea, he would bang 


lO 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


the Bible and shout very bitterly, ‘Curse ye, Meroz/ 
Poor Meroz got thoroughly cursed that day, whoever 
he was, Mrs. Dr. dear,” said Susan. 

“The minister who is candidating can’t be too care- 
ful what text he chooses,” said Miss Cornelia solemnly. 
“I believe Mr. Pierson would have got the call if he 
had picked a different text. But when he announced 
T v\^ill lift my eyes to the hills’ he was done for. Every 
one grinned, for every one knew that those two Hill 
girls from the Harbour Head have been setting their 
caps for every single minister who came to the Glen 
for the last fifteen years. And Mr. Newman had too 
large a family.” 

“He stayed with my brother-in-law, James Clow,” 
said Susan. “ ‘How many children have you got ?’ I 
asked him. ‘Nine boys and a sister for each of them,’ 
he said. ‘Eighteen !’ said I. ‘Dear me, what a family !’ 
And then he laughed and laughed. But I do not know 
why, Mrs. Dr. dear, and I am certain that eighteen 
children would be too many for any manse.” 

“He had only ten children, Susan,” explained Miss 
Cornelia, with contemptuous patience. “And ten good 
children would not be much worse for the manse and 
congregation than the four who are there now. 
Though I wouldn’t say, Anne dearie, that they are so 
bad, either. I like them — everybody likes them. It’s 
impossible to help liking them. They would be real 
nice little souls if there was any one to look after their 
manners and teach them what is right and proper. 


SHEER GOSSIP 


11 


For instance, at school the teacher says they are model 
children. But at home they simply run wild.” 

''What about Mrs. Meredith ?” asked Anne. 

"There’s no Mrs. Meredith. That is just the 
trouble. Mr. Meredith is a widower. His wife died 
four years ago. If we had known that I don’t suppose 
we would have called him, for a widower is even worse 
in a congregation than a single man. But he was heard 
to speak of his children and we all supposed there was 
a mother, too. And when they came there was nobody 
but old Aunt Martha, as they call her. She’s a cousin 
of Mr. Meredith’s mother, I believe, and he took her 
in to save her from the poorhouse. She is seventy-five 
years old, half blind, and very deaf and very cranky.” 

"And a very poor cook, Mrs. Dr. dear.” 

"The worst possible manager for a manse,” said 
Miss Cornelia bitterly. "Mr. Meredith won’t get any 
other housekeeper because he says it would hurt Aunt 
Martha’s feelings. Anne dearie, believe me, the state 
of that manse is something terrible. Everything is 
thick with dust and nothing is ever in its place. And 
we had painted and papered it all so nice before they 
came.” 

"There are four children, you say?” asked Anne, 
beginning to mother them already in her heart. 

"Yes. They run up just like the steps of a stair. 
Gerald’s the oldest. He’s twelve and they call him 
Jerry. He’s a clever boy. Faith is eleven. She is a 
regular tom-boy but pretty as a picture, I must say.” 


12 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


‘'She looks like an angel but she is a holy terror for 
mischief, Mrs. Dr. dear,” said Susan solemnly. “I was 
at the manse one night last week and Mrs. James Milli- 
son was there, too. She had brought them up a dozen 
eggs and a little pail of milk — a very little pail, Mrs. 
Dr. dear. Faith took them and whisked down cellar 
with them. Near the bottom of the stairs she caught 
her toe and fell the rest of the way, milk and eggs and 
all. You can imagine the result, Mrs. Dr. dear. But 
that child came up laughing. ‘I don't know whether 
I’m myself or a custard pie,’ she said. And Mrs. James 
Millison was very angry. She said she would never 
take another thing to the manse if it was to be wasted 
and destroyed in that fashion.” 

“Maria Millison never hurt herself taking things to 
the manse,” sniffed Miss Cornelia. “She just took 
them that night as an excuse for curiosity. But poor 
Faith is always getting into scrapes. She is so heed- 
less and impulsive.” 

“Just like me. I’m going to like your Faith,” said 
Anne decidedly. 

“She is full of spunk — and I do like spunk, Mrs. Dr. 
dear,” admitted Susan. 

“There’s something taking about her,” conceded 
Miss Cornelia. “You never see her but she’s laughing, 
and somehow it always makes you want to laugh too. 
She can’t even keep a straight face in church. Una is 
ten — she’s a sweet little thing — not pretty, but sweet. 
And Thomas Carlyle is nine. They call him Carl, and 


SHEER GOSSIP 


13 

he has a regular mania for collecting toads and bugs 
and frogs and bringing them into the house.” 

“I suppose he was responsible for the dead rat that 
was lying on a chair in the parlour the afternoon Mrs. 
Grant called. It gave her a turn,” said Susan, “and I 
do not wonder, for manse parlours are no places for 
dead rats. To be sure it may have been the cat who 
left it there. He is as full of the old Nick as he can 
be stuffed, Mrs. Dr. dear. A manse cat should at least 
look respectable, in my opinion, whatever he really is. 
But 1 never saw such a rakish-looking beast. And he 
walks along the ridge pole of the manse almost every 
evening at sunset, Mrs. Dr. dear, and waves his tail, 
and that is not becoming.” 

“The worst of it is, they are never decently dressed,” 
sighed Miss Cornelia. “And since the snow went they 
go to school barefooted. Now, you know Anne 
dearie, that isn’t the right thing for manse children — 
especially when the Methodist minister’s little girl 
always wears such nice buttoned boots. And I do 
wish they wouldn’t play in the old Methodist grave- 
yard.” 

“It’s very tempting, when it’s right beside the 
manse,” said Anne. “I’ve always thought graveyards 
must be delightful places to play in.” 

“Oh, no, you did not, Mrs. Dr. dear,” said loyal 
Susan, determined to protect Anne from herself. 
“You have too much good sense and decorum.” 

“Why did they ever build that manse beside the 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


H 

graveyard in the first place,” asked Anne. ‘^Their lawn 
is so small there is no place for them to play except in 
the graveyard.” 

‘‘It was a mistake,” admitted Miss Cornelia. “But 
they got the lot cheap. And no other manse children 
ever thought of playing there. Mr. Meredith shouldn’t 
allow it. But he has always got his nose buried in a 
book, when he is home. He reads and reads, or 
walks about in his study in a day-dream. So far he 
hasn’t forgotten to be in church on Sundays, but twice 
he has forgotten about the prayer meeting and one of 
the elders had to go over to the manse and remind him. 
And he forgot about Fanny Cooper’s wedding. They 
rung him up on the ’phone and then he rushed right 
over, just as he was, carpet slippers and all. One 
wouldn’t mind if the Methodists didn’t laugh so about 
it. But there’s one comfort — they can’t criticize his 
sermons. He wakes up when he’s in the pulpit, believe 
me. And the Methodist minister can’t preach at all — 
so they tell me. I have never heard him, thank good- 
ness.” 

Miss Cornelia’s scorn of men had abated somewhat 
since her marriage, but her scorn of Methodists re- 
mained untinged of charity. Susan smiled slyly. 

“They do say, Mrs. Marshall Elliott, that the Meth- 
odists and Presbyterians are talking of uniting,” she 
said. 

“Well, all I hope is that I’ll be under the sod if that 
ever comes to pass,” retorted Miss Cornelia. “I shall 


SHEER GOSSIP 


15 

never have truck or trade with Methodists, and Mr. 
Meredith will find that he’d better steer clear of them, 
too. He is entirely too sociable with them, believe me. 
Why, he went to the Jacob Drew’s silver wedding sup- 
per and got into a nice scrape as a result.” 

“What was it?” 

“Mrs. Drew asked him to carve the roast goose — 
for Jacob Drew never did or could carve. Well, Mr. 

# Meredith tackled it, and in the process he knocked it 
clean off the platter into Mrs. Reese’s lap, who was 
sitting next him. And he just said dreamily, ‘Mrs. 
Reese, will you kindly return me that goose?’ Mrs. 
Reese ‘returned’ it, as meek as Moses, but she must 
have been furious, for she had on her new silk dress. 
The worst of it is, she was a Methodist.” 

“But I think that is better than if she was a Presby- 
terian,” interjected Susan. “If she had been a Presby- 
terian she would most likely have left the church and 
we cannot afford to lose our members. And Mrs. 
Reese is not liked in her own church, because she gives 
herself such great airs, so that the Methodists would 
be rather pleased that Mr. Meredith spoiled her dress.” 

“The point is, he made himself ridiculous, and I, 
for one, do not like to see my minister made ridiculous 
in the eyes of the Methodists,” said Miss Cornelia 
stiffly. “If he had had a wife it would not have hap- 
pened.” 

“I do not see if he had a dozen wives how they 
could have prevented Mrs. Drew from using up her 


i6 RAINBOW VALLEY 

tough old gander for the wedding feast,” said Susan 
stubbornly. 

‘They say that was her husband’s doing,” said Miss 
Cornelia. “Jacob Drew is a conceited, stingy, domi- 
neering creature.” 

“And they do say he and his wife detest each other 
— which does not seem to me the proper way for mar- 
ried folks to get along. But then, of course, I have 
had no experience along that line,” said Susan, tossing 
her head. “And I am not one to blame everything on 
the men. Mrs. Drew is mean enough herself. They 
say that the only thing she was ever known to give 
away was a crock of butter made out of cream a rat 
had fell into. She contributed it to a church social. 
Nobody found out about the rat until afterwards.” 

“Fortunately, all the people the Merediths have 
offended so far are Methodists,” said Miss Cornelia. 
“That Jerry went to the Methodist prayer meeting one 
night about a fortnight ago and sat beside old William 
Marsh who got up as usual and testified with fearful 
groans. ‘Do you feel any better now?’ whispered 
Jerry when William sat down. Poor Jerry meant to 
be sympathetic, but Mr. Marsh thought he was im- 
pertinent and is furious at him. Of course, Jerry had 
no business to be in a Methodist prayer meeting at all. 
But they go where they like.” 

“I hope they will not offend Mrs. Alec Davis of the 
Harbour Head,” said Susan. “She is a very touchy 
woman, I understand, but she is very well off and pays 


SHEER GOSSIP 


17 

the most of any one to the salary. I have heard that 
she says the Merediths are the worst brought up chil- 
dren she ever saw.” 

‘‘Every word you say convinces me more and more 
that the Merediths belong to the race that knows 
Joseph,” said Mistress Anne decidedly. 

“When all is said and done, they do,'' admitted Miss 
Cornelia. “And that balances everything. Anyway, 
we’ve got them now and we must just do the best we 
can by them and stick up for them to the Methodists. 
Well, I suppose I must be getting down harbour. Mar- 
shall will soon be home — he went over-harbour to-day 
— and wanting his supper, man-like. I’m sorry I 
haven’t seen the other children. And where’s the 
doctor?” 

“Up at the Harbour Head. We’ve only been home 
three days and in that time he has spent three hours 
in his own bed and eaten two meals in his own house.” 

“Well, everybody who has been sick for the last 
six weeks has been waiting for him to come home — 
and I don’t blame them. When that over-harbour 
doctor married the undertaker’s daughter at Low- 
bridge people felt suspicious of him. It didn’t look 
well. You and the doctor must come down soon and 
tell us all about your trip. I suppose you’ve had a 
splendid time.” 

“We had,” agreed Anne. “It was the fulfilment of 
years of dreams. The old world is very lovely and 
very wonderful. But we have come back very well 


i8 RAINBOW VALLEY 

satisfied with our own land. Canada is the finest 
country in the world, Miss Cornelia.’* 

"‘Nobody ever doubted that,” said Miss Cornelia, 
complacently. 

“And old P. E. I. is the loveliest province in it and 
Four Winds the loveliest spot in P. E. L,” laughed 
Anne, looking adoringly out over the sunset splendour 
of glen and harbour and gulf. She waved her hand 
at it. “I saw nothing more beautiful than that in 
Europe, Miss Cornelia. Must you go? The children 
will be sorry to have missed you.” 

“They must come and see me soon. Tell them the 
doughnut jar is always full.” 

“Oh, at supper they were planning a descent on you. 
They’ll go soon; but they must settle down to school 
again now. And the twins are going to take music 
lessons.” 

“Not from the Methodist minister’s wife, I hope?” 
said Miss Cornelia anxiously. 

“No, — from Rosemary West. I was up last evening 
to arrange it with her. What a pretty girl she is !” 

“Rosemary holds her own well. She isn’t as young 
as she once was.” 

“I thought her very charming. I’ve never had any 
real acquaintance with her, you know. Their house 
is so out of the way, and I’ve seldom ever seen her 
except at church.” 

“People alv have liked Rosemary West, though 
they don’t ^ • her,” said Miss Cornelia, quite 


SHEER GOSSIP 


19 

unconscious of the high tribute she was paying to 
Rosemary’s charm. “Ellen has always kept her down, 
so to speak. She has tyrannized over her, and yet she 
has always indulged her in a good many ways. Rose- 
mary was engaged once, you know, — to young Martin 
Crawford. His ship was wrecked on the Magdalens 
and all the crew were drowned* Rosemary was just 
a child — only seventeen. But she was never the same 
afterwards. She and Ellen have stayed very close 
at home since their mother’s death. They don’t often 
get to their own church at Lowbridge and I under- 
stand Ellen doesn’t approve of going too often to a 
Presbyterian church. To the Methodist she never 
goes. I’ll say that much for her. That family of Wests 
have always been strong Episcopalians. Rosemary 
and Ellen are pretty well off. Rosemary doesn’t really 
need to give music lessons. She does it because she 
likes to. They are distantly related to Leslie, you 
know. Are the Fords coming to the harbour this 
summer ?” 

“No. They are going on a trip to Japan and will 
probably be away for a year. Owen’s new novel is 
to have a Japanese setting. This will be the first sum- 
mer that the dear old house of dreams will be empty 
since we left it.” 

“I should think Owen Ford might find enough to 
write about in Canada without dragging his wife and 
his innocent children off to a heathen country like 
Japan,” grumbled Miss Cornelia. ^‘The Life Book was 


20 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


the best book he’s ever written and he got the material 
for that right here in Four Winds.” 

‘^Captain Jim gave him the most of that, you know. 
And he collected it all over the world. But Owen’s 
books are all delightful, I think.” 

“Oh, they’re well enough as far as they go. I make 
it a point to read every one he writes, though I’ve 
always held, Anne dearie, that reading novels is a 
sinful waste of time. I shall write and tell him my 
opinion of this Japanese business, believe me. Does 
he want Kenneth and Persis to be converted into 
pagans ?” 

With which unanswerable conundrum Miss Cor- 
nelia took her departure. Susan proceeded to put 
Rilla in bed and Anne sat on the veranda steps under 
the early stars and dreamed her incorrigible dreams 
and learned all over again for the hundredth happy 
time what a moonrise splendour and sheen could be on 
Four Winds Harbour. 


CHAPTER III 
The Ingleside Children 

I N daytime the Blythe children liked very well to 
play in the rich, soft greens and glooms of the big 
maple grove between Ingleside and the Glen St. Mary 
pond; but for evening revels there was no place like 
the little valley behind the maple grove. It was a fairy 
realm of romance to them. Once, looking from the 
attic windows of Ingleside, through the mist and after- 
math of a summer thunderstorm, they had seen the 
beloved spot arched by a glorious rainbow, one end of 
which seemed to dip straight down to where a corner 
of the pond ran up into the lower end of the valley. 

“Let us call it Rainbow Valley,’^ said Walter de- 
lightedly, and Rainbow Valley thenceforth it was. 

Outside of Rainbow Valley the wind might be rol- 
licking and boisterous. Here it always went gently. 
Little, winding, fairy paths ran here and there over 
spruce roots cushioned with moss. Wild cherry trees, 
that in blossom time would be misty white, were scat- 
tered all over the valley, mingling with the dark 
spruces. A little brook with amber waters ran through 
it from the Glen village. The houses of the village 
were comfortably far away; only at the upper end of 
the valley was a little tumble-down, deserted cottage, 
21 


22 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


referred to as “the old Bailey house.” It had not been 
occupied for many years, but a grass-grown dyke sur- 
rounded it and inside was an ancient garden where 
the Ingleside children could find violets and daisies and 
June lilies still blooming in season. For the rest, the 
garden was overgrown with caraway that swayed and 
foamed in the moonshine of summer eves like seas of 
silver. 

To the south lay the pond and beyond it the ripened 
distance lost itself in purple woods, save where, on a 
high hill, a solitary old gray homestead looked down 
on Glen and harbour. There was a certain wild 
woodsiness and solitude about Rainbow Valley, in 
spite of its nearness to the village, which endeared it 
to the children. of Ingleside. 

The valley was full of dear, friendly hollows and 
the largest of these was their favourite stamping 
ground. Here they were assembled on this particular 
evening. There was a grove of young spruces in this 
hollow, with a tiny, grassy glade in its heart, opening 
on the bank of the brook. By the brook grew a silver 
birch tree, a young, incredibly straight thing which 
Walter had named the “White Lady.” In this glade, 
too, were the “Tree Lovers,” as Walter called a spruce 
and maple which grew so closely together that their 
boughs were inextricably intertwined. Jem had hung 
an old string of sleigh bells, given him by the Glen 
blacksmith, on the Tree Lovers, and every visitant 
breeze called out sudden fairy tinkles from it. 


THE INGLESIDE CHILDREN 23 

*'How nice it is to be back!’’ said Nan. "‘After all, 
none of the Avonlea places are quite as nice as Rain- 
bow Valley.” 

But they were very fond of the Avonlea places for 
all that. A visit to Green Gables was always consid- 
ered a great treat. Aunt Marilla was very good to 
them, and so was Mrs. Rachel Lynde, who was spend- 
ing the leisure of her old age in knitting cotton- warp 
quilts against the day when Anne’s daughters should 
need a “setting-out.” There were jolly playmates 
there, too — “Uncle” Davy’s children and “Aunt” 
Diana’s children. They knew all the spots their mother 
had loved so well in her girlhood at old Green Gables 
— the long Lover’s Lane, that was pink-hedged in wild- 
rose time, the always neat yard, with its willows and 
poplars, the Dryad’s Bubble, lucent and lovely as of 
yore, the Lake of Shining Waters, and Willowmere. 
The twins had their mother’s old porch-gable room, 
and Aunt Marilla used to come in at night, when she 
thought they were asleep, to gloat over them. But 
they all knew she loved Jem the best. 

Jem was at present busily occupied in frying a mess 
of small trout which he had just caught in the pond. 
His stove consisted of a circle of red stones, with a 
fire kindled in it, and his culinary utensils were an old 
tin can, hammered out flat, and a fork with only one 
tine left. Nevertheless, ripping good meals had before 
now been thus prepared. 

Jem was the child of the House of Dreams. All 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


24 

the others had been born at Ingleside. He had curly 
red hair, like his mother’s, and frank hazel eyes, like 
his father’s; he had his mother’s fine nose and his 
father’s steady, humorous mouth. And he was the 
only one of the family who had ears nice enough to 
please Susan. But he had a standing feud with Susan 
because she would not give up calling him Little Jem. 
It was outrageous, thought thirteen year old Jem. 
Mother had more sense. 

'Tm not little any more, mother,” he had cried in- 
dignantly, on his eighth birthday. “I’m awful big.” 

Mother had sighed and laughed and sighed again; 
and she never called him Little Jem again — in his 
hearing at least. 

He was and always had been a sturdy, reliable little 
chap. He never broke a promise. He was not a great 
talker. His teachers did not think him brilliant, but 
he was a good, all-round student. He never took things 
on faith ; he always liked to investigate the truth of a 
statement for himself. Once Susan had told him that 
if he touched his tongue to a frosty latch all the skin 
would tear off it. Jem had promptly done it, “just 
to see if it was so.” He found it was “so,” at the cost 
of a very sore tongue for several days. But Jem did 
not grudge suffering in the interests of science. By 
constant experiment and observation he learned a great 
deal and his brothers and sisters thought his extensive 
knowledge of their little world quite wonderful. Jem 
always knew where the first and ripest berries grew, 


THE INGLESIDE CHILDREN 


25 

where the first pale violets shyly wakened from their 
winter's sleep, and how many blue eggs were in a given 
robin’s nest in the maple grove. He could tell fortunes 
from daisy petals and suck honey from red clovers, 
and grub up all sorts of edible roots on the banks of 
the pond, while Susan went in daily fear that they 
would all be poisoned. He knew where the finest 
spruce gum was to be found, in pale amber knots on 
the lichened bark, he knew where the nuts grew thickest 
in the beech woods around the Harbour Head, and 
where the best trouting places up the brooks were. He 
could mimic the call of any wild bird or beast in Four 
Winds and he knew the haunt of every wild flower 
from spring to autumn. 

Walter Blythe was sitting under the White Lady, 
with a volume of poems lying beside him, but he was 
not reading. He was gazing now at the emerald-misted 
willows by the pond, and now at a flock of clouds, like 
little silver sheep, herded by the wind, that were drift- 
ing over Rainbow Valley, with rapture in his wide 
splendid eyes. Walter’s eyes were very wonderful. 
All the joy and sorrow and laughter and loyalty and 
aspiration of many generations lying under the sod 
looked out of their dark gray depths. 

Walter was a “hop out of kin,” as far as looks went. 
He did not resemble any known relative. He was quite 
the handsomest of the Ingleside children, with straight 
black hair and finely modelled features. But he had 
all his mother’s vivid imagination and passionate love 


26 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


of beauty. Frost of winter, invitation of spring, dream 
of summer and glamour of autumn, all meant much to* 
Walter. 

In school, where Jem was a chieftain, Walter was 
not thought highly of. He was supposed to be ‘'girly'* 
and milk-soppish, because he never fought and seldom 
joined in the school sports, preferring to herd by him- 
self in out of the way corners and read books — espe- 
cially ‘‘po’try books.” Walter loved the poets and 
pored over their pages from the time he could first 
read. Their music was woven into his growing soul — 
the music of the immortals. Walter cherished the am- 
bition to be a poet himself some day. The thing could 
be done. A certain Uncle Paul — so called of courtesy 
— who lived now in that mysterious realm called ^hhe 
States,” was Walter’s model. Uncle Paul had once 
been a little school boy in Avonlea and now his poetry 
was read everywhere. But the Glen schoolboys did 
not know of Walter’s dreams and would not have 
been greatly impressed if they had. In spite of his 
lack of physical prowess, however, he commanded a 
certain unwilling respect because of his power of “talk- 
ing book talk.” Nobody in Glen St. Mary school could 
talk like him. He “sounded like a preacher,” one boy 
said; and for this reason he was generally left alone 
and not persecuted, as most boys were who were sus- 
pected of disliking or fearing fisticuflfs. 

The ten year old Ingleside twins violated twin tradi- 
tion by not looking in the least alike. Anne, who was 


THE INGLESIDE CHILDREN 


27 

always called Nan, was very pretty, with velvety nut- 
brown eyes and silky nut-brown hair. She was a very 
blithe and dainty little maiden — Blythe by name and 
blithe by nature, one of her teachers had said. Her 
complexion was quite faultless, much to her mother’s 
satisfaction. 

'Tm so glad I have one daughter who can wear 
pink,” Mrs. Blythe was wont to say jubilantly. 

Diana Blythe, known as Di, was very like her 
mother, with gray-green eyes that always shone with 
a peculiar lustre and brilliancy in the dusk, and red 
hair. Perhaps this was why she was her father’s 
favourite. She and Walter were especial chums; Di 
was the only one to whom he would ever read the 
verses he wrote himself — the only one who knew that 
he was secretly hard at work on an epic, strikingly 
resembling ‘‘Marmion” in some things, if not in others. 
She kept all his secrets, even from Nan, and told him 
all hers. 

“Won’t you soon have those fish ready, Jem?” said 
Nan, sniffing with her dainty nose. “The smell makes 
me awfully hungry.” 

“They’re nearly ready,” said Jem, giving one a dex- 
terous turn. “Get out the bread and the plates, girls. 
Walter, wake up.” 

“How the air shines to-night,” said Walter dreamily. 
Not that he despised fried trout either, by any means; 
but with Walter food for the soul always took first 
place. “The flower angel has been walking over the 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


28 

world to-day, calling to the flowers. I can see his 
blue wings on that hill by the woods.'^ 

‘'Any angels' wings I ever saw were white," said 
Nan. 

“The flower angel's aren't. They are a pale misty 
blue, just like the haze in the valley. Oh, how I wish 
I could fly. It must be just glorious." 

“One does fly in dreams sometimes," said Di. 

“I never dream that I’m flying exactly," said Walter. 
“But I often dream that I just rise up from the ground 
and float over the fences and the trees. It's delightful 
— and I always think, ‘This isn't a dream like it's 
always been before. This is real' — and then I wake 
up after all, and it's heart-breaking." 

“Hurry up. Nan," ordered Jem. 

Nan had produced the banquet board — 3. board 
literally as well as figuratively — from which many a 
feast, seasoned as no viands were elsewhere, had been 
eaten in Rainbow Valley. It was converted into a 
table by propping it on two large, mossy stones. News- 
papers served as tablecloth, and broken plates and 
handleless cups from Susan’s discard furnished the 
dishes. From a tin box secreted at the root of a 
spruce tree Nan brought forth bread and salt. The 
brook gave Adam’s ale of unsurpassed crystal. For 
the rest, there was a certain -sauce, compounded of 
fresh air and appetite of youth, which gave to every- 
thing a divine flavour. To sit in Rainbow Valley, 
steeped in a twilight half gold, half amethyst, rife with 


THE INGLESIDE CHILDREN 


29 

the odours of balsam-fir and woodsy growing things 
in their springtime prime, with the pale stars of wild 
strawberry blossoms all around you, and with the 
sough of the wind and tinkle of bells in the shaking 
tree tops, and eat fried trout and dry bread, was some- 
thing which the mighty of earth might have envied 
them. 

‘‘Sit in,” invited Nan, as Jem placed his sizzling tin 
platter of trout on the table. “It’s your turn to say 
grace, Jem.” 

“I’ve done my part frying the trout,” protested Jem, 
who hated saying grace. “Let Walter say it. He 
likes saying grace. And cut it short, too, Walt. I’m 
starving.” 

But Walter said no grace, short or long, just then. 
An interruption occurred. 

“Who’s coming down from the manse hill ?” said Di. 


CHAPTER IV 
The Manse Children 

A unt MARTHA might be, and was, a very poor 
housekeeper; the Rev. John Knox Meredith 
might be, and was, a very absent-minded, indulgent 
man. But it could not be denied that there was some- 
thing very homelike and lovable about the Glen St. 
Mary manse in spite of its untidiness. Even the criti- 
cal housewives of the Glen felt it, and were uncon- 
sciously mellowed in judgment because of it. Perhaps 
its charm was in part due to accidental circumstances — 
the luxuriant vines clustering over its gray, clap- 
boarded walls, the friendly acacias and balm-of-gileads 
that crowded about it with the freedom of old acquaint- 
ance, and the beautiful views of harbour and sand- 
dunes from its front windows. But these things had 
been there in the reign of Mr. Meredith’s predecessor, 
when the manse had been the primmest, neatest, and 
dreariest house in the Glen. So much of the credit 
must be given to the personality of its new inmates. 
There was an atmosphere of laughter and comrade- 
ship about it; the doors were always open; the inner 
and outer worlds joined hands. Love was the only 
law in Glen St. Mary manse. 

The people of his congregation said that Mr. 
Meredith spoiled his children. Very likely he did. It 
30 


THE MANSE CHILDREN 


31 

is certain that he could not bear to scold them. ‘They 
have no mother/' he used to say to himself, with a 
sigh, when some unusually glaring peccadillo forced 
itself upon his notice. But he did not know half of 
their goings-on. He belonged to the sect of dreamers. 
The windows of his study looked out on the grave- 
yard but, as he paced up and down the room, reflecting 
deeply on the immortality of the soul, he was quite 
unaware that Jerry and Carl were playing leap-frog 
hilariously over the flat stones in that abode of dead 
Methodists. Mr. Meredith had occasional acute reali- 
zations that his children were not so well looked after, 
physically or morally, as they had been before his 
wife died, and he had always a dim sub-consciousness 
that house and meals were very different under Aunt 
Martha's management from what they had been under 
Cecilia's. For the rest, he lived in a world of books 
and abstractions; and, therefore, although his clothes 
were seldom brushed, and although the Glen house- 
wives concluded, from the ivory-like pallor of his clear- 
cut features and slender hands, that he never got 
enough to eat, he was not an unhappy man. 

If ever a graveyard could be called a cheerful place, 
the old Methodist graveyard at Glen St. Mary might 
be so called. The new graveyard, at the other side 
of the Methodist church, was a neat and proper and 
doleful spot; but the old one had been left so long to 
Nature’s kindly and gracious ministries that it had 
become very pleasant. 


32 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


It was surrounded on three sides by a dyke of 
stones and sod, topped by a gray and uncertain paling. 
Outside the dyke grew a row of tall fir trees with 
thick, balsamic boughs. The dyke, which had been 
built by the first settlers of the Glen, was old enough 
to be beautiful, with mosses and green things growing 
out of its crevices, violets purpling at its base in the 
early spring days, and asters and golden-rod making 
an autumnal glory in its corners. Little ferns clustered 
companionably between its stones, and here and there 
a big bracken grew. 

On the eastern side there was neither fence nor 
dyke. The graveyard there straggled off into a young 
fir plantation, ever pushing nearer to the graves and 
deepening eastward into a thick wood. The air was 
always full of the harp-like voices of the sea, and the 
music of gray old trees, and in the spring mornings the 
choruses of birds in the elms around the two churches 
sang of life and not of death. The Meredith children 
loved the old graveyard. 

Blue-eyed ivy, ''garden-spruce,” and mint ran riot 
over the sunken graves. Blueberry bushes grew lav- 
ishly in the sandy corner next to the fir wood. The 
varying fashions of tombstones for three generations 
were to be found there, from the flat, oblong, red sand- 
stone slabs of old settlers, down through the days of 
weeping willows and clasped hands, to the latest mon- 
strosities of tall "monuments” and draped urns. One 
of the latter, the biggest and ugliest in the graveyard, 


THE MANSE CHILDREN 


33 

was sacred to the memory of a certain Alec Davis who 
had been born a Methodist but had taken to himself 
a Presbyterian bride of the Douglas clan. She had 
made him turn Presbyterian and kept him toeing the 
Presbyterian mark all his life. But when he died she 
did not dare to doom him to a lonely grave in the 
Presbyterian graveyard over-harbour. His people 
were all buried in the Methodist cemetery; so Alec 
Davis went back to his own in death and his widow 
consoled herself by erecting a monument which cost 
more than any of the Methodists could afford. The 
Meredith children hated it, without just knowing why, 
but they loved the old, flat, bench-like stones with the 
tall grasses growing rankly about them. They made 
jolly seats for one thing. They were all sitting on 
one now. Jerry, tired of leap frog, was playing on 
a jews-harp. Carl was lovingly poring over a strange 
beetle he had found ; Una was trying to make a doll's 
dress, and Faith, leaning back on her slender brown 
wrists, was swinging her bare feet in lively time to the 
jews-harp. 

Jerry had his father's black hair and large black 
eyes, but in him the latter were flashing instead of 
dreamy. Faith, who came next to him, wore her 
beauty like a rose, careless and glowing. She had 
golden-brown eyes, golden-brown curls and crimson 
cheeks. She laughed too much to please her father's 
congregation and had shocked old Mrs. Taylor, the 
disconsolate spouse of several departed husbands, by 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


34 

saucily declaring, — in the church porch at that, — '^The 
world isn’t a vale of tears, Mrs. Taylor. It’s a world 
of laughter.’’ 

Little dreamy Una was not given to laughter. Her 
braids of straight, dead-black hair betrayed no lawless 
kinks, and her almond-shaped, dark-blue eyes had 
something wistful and sorrowful in them. Her mouth 
had a trick of falling open over her tiny white teeth, 
and a shy, meditative smile occasionally crept over her 
small face. She was much more sensitive to public 
opinion than Faith, and had an uneasy consciousness 
that there was something askew in their way of living. 
She longed to put it right, but did not know how. 
Now and then she dusted the furniture — but it was so 
seldom she could find the duster because it was never 
in the same place twice. And when the clothes brush 
was to the fore she tried to brush her father’s best suit 
on Saturdays, and once sewed on a missing button 
with coarse white thread. When Mr. Meredith went 
to church next day every female eye saw that button 
and the peace of the Ladies’ Aid was upset for weeks. 

Carl had the clear, bright, dark-blue eyes, fearless 
and direct, of his dead mother, and her brown hair 
with its glints of gold. He knew the secrets of bugs 
and had a sort of freemasonry with bees and beetles. 
Una never liked to sit near him because she never 
knew what uncanny creature might be secreted about 
him. Jerry refused to sleep with him because Carl 
had once taken a young garter snake to bed with him ; 


THE MANSE CHILDREN 35 

so Carl slept in his old cot, which was so short that 
he could never stretch out, and had strange bed-fellows. 
Perhaps it was just as well that Aunt Martha was 
half blind when she made that bed. Altogether they 
were a jolly, lovable little crew, and Cecilia Meredith’s 
heart must have ached bitterly when she faced the 
knowledge that she must leave them. 

‘Where would you like to be buried if you were a 
Methodist?” asked Faith cheerfully. 

This opened up an interesting field of speculation. 

“There isn’t much choice. The place is full,” said 
Jerry. “Fd like that corner near the road, I guess. I 
, could hear the teams going past and the people talking.” 

“I’d like that little hollow under the weeping birch,” 
said Una. “That birch is such a place for birds and 
they sing like mad in the mornings.” 

“I’d take the Porter lot where there’s so many chil- 
dren buried. I like lots of company,” said Faith. 
“Carl, where’d you?” 

“I’d rather not be buried at all,” said Carl, “but if 
I had to be I’d like the ant-bed. Ants are awfly 
int’resting.” 

“How very good all the people who are buried here 
must have been,” said Una, who had been reading the 
laudatory old epitaphs. “There doesn’t seem to be a 
single bad person in the whole graveyard. Methodists 
must be better than Presbyterians after all.” 

“Maybe the Methodists bury their bad people just 
just like they do cats,” suggested Carl. “Maybe they 


36 RAINBOW VALLEY 

don’t bother bringing them to the graveyard at all.” 

“Nonsense,” said Faith. “The people that are buried 
here weren’t any better than other folks, Una. But 
when any one is dead you mustn’t say anything of him 
but good or he’ll come back and ha’nt you. Aunt 
Martha told me that. I asked father if it was true 
and he just looked through me and muttered, ‘True? 
True? What is truth? What is truth, O jesting 
Pilate?’ I concluded from that it must be true.” 

“I wonder if Mr. Alec Davis would come back and 
ha’nt me if I threw a stone at the urn on top of his 
tombstone,” said Jerry. 

“Mrs. Davis would,” giggled Faith. “She just 
watches us in church like a cat watching mice. Last 
Sunday I made a face at her nephew and he made one 
back at me and you should have seen her glare. Fll 
bet she boxed his ears when they got out. Mrs. Mar- 
shall Elliott told me we mustn’t offend her on any 
account or I’d have made a face at her, too !” 

“They say Jem Blythe stuck out his tongue at her 
once and she never would have his father again, even 
when her husband was dying,” said Jerry. “I wonder 
what the Blythe gang will be like.” 

“I liked their looks,” said Faith. The manse chil- 
dren had been at the station that afternoon when the 
Blythe small fry had arrived. “I liked Jem’s looks 
especially/' 

“They say in school that Walter’s a sissy,” said 
Jerry. 


THE MANSE CHILDREN 


37 

‘‘I don't believe it," said Una, who had thought 
Walter very handsome. 

‘‘Well, he writes poetry, anyhow. He won the prize 
the teacher offered last year for writing a poem, Bertie 
Shakespeare Di;ew told me. Bertie’s mother thought 
he should have got the prize because of his name, but 
Bertie said he couldn’t write poetry to save his soul, 
name or no name.’’ 

“I suppose we’ll get acquainted with them as soon 
as they begin going to school,’’ mused Faith. “I hope 
the girls are nice. I don’t like most of the girls round 
I here. Even the nice ones are poky. But the Blythe 
/ twins look jolly. I thought twins always looked alike, 
but they don’t. I think the red-haired one is the nicest,’’ 

“I liked their mother’s looks,’’ said Una with a little 
sigh. Una envied all children with mothers. She had 
been only six when her mother died, but she had some 
very precious memories, treasured in her soul like 
jewels, of twilight cuddlings and morning frolics, of 
loving eyes, a tender voice, and the sweetest, gayest 
laugh. 

“They say she isn’t like other people,’’ said Jerry. 

“Mrs. Elliott says that is because she never really 
grew up,’’ said Faith. 

“She’s taller than Mrs. Elliott.’’ 

“Yes, yes, but it is inside — Mrs. Elliott says Mrs. 
Blythe just stayed a little girl inside.’’ 

“What do I smell ?’’ interrupted Carl, sniffing. 

They all smelled it now. A most delectable odour 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


38 

came floating up on the still evening air from the direc- 
tion of the little woodsy dell below the manse hill. 

“That makes me hungry,” said Jerry. 

“We had only bread and molasses for supper and 
cold ditto for dinner,” said Una plaintively. 

Aunt Martha^s habit was to boil a large slab of 
mutton early in the week and serve it up every day, 
cold and greasy, as long as it lasted. To this Faith, in 
a moment of inspiration, had given the name of “ditto” 
and by this it was invariably known at the manse. 

“Let’s go and see where that smell is coming from,” 
said Jerry. 

They all sprang up, frolicked over the lawn with the 
abandon of young puppies, climbed a fence, and tore 
down the mossy slope, guided by the savory lure that 
ever grew stronger. A few minutes later they arrived 
breathlessly in the sanctum sanctorum of Rainbow 
Valley where the Blythe children were just about to 
give thanks and eat. 

They halted shyly. Una wished they had not been 
so precipitate : but Di Blythe was equal to that and any 
occasion. She stepped forward, with a comrade’s 
smile. 

“I guess I know who you are,” she said. “You 
belong to the manse, don’t you ?” 

Faith nodded, her face creased with dimples. 

“We smelled your trout cooking and wondered what 
it was.” 

“You must sit down and help us eat them,” said Di. 


THE MANSE CHILDREN 39 

'‘Maybe you haven^t more than you want your- 
selves,” said Jerry, looking hungrily at the tin platter. 

“WeVe heaps — three apiece,” said Jem. “Sit 
down.” 

No more ceremony was necessary. Down they all 
sat on mossy stones. Merry was that feast and long. 
Nan and Di would probably have died of horror had 
they known what Faith and Una knew perfectly well — 
that Carl had two young mice in his jacket pocket. But 
they never knew it, so it never hurt them. Where 
can folks get better acquainted than over a meal 
table? When the last trout had vanished, the manse 
children and the Ingleside children were sworn 
friends and allies. They had always known each 
other and always would. The race of Joseph recog- 
nized its own. 

They poured out the history of their Tittle pasts. 
The manse children heard of Avonlea and Green 
Gables, of Rainbow Valley traditions, and of the little 
house by the harbour shore where Jem had been born. 
The Ingleside children heard of May water, where the 
Merediths had lived before coming to the Glen, of 
Una’s beloved, one-eyed doll and Faith’s pet rooster. 

Faith was inclined to resent the fact that people 
laughed at her for petting a rooster. She liked the 
Blythes because they accepted it without question. 

“A handsome rooster like Adam is just as nice a pet 
as a dog or cat, / think,” she said. “If he was a 
canary nobody would wonder. And I brought him 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


40 

up from a little, wee, yellow chicken. Mrs. Johnson 
at Maywater gave him to me. A weasel had killed all 
his brothers and sisters. I called him after her hus- 
band. I never liked dolls or cats. Cats are too sneaky 
and dolls are dead/' 

‘‘Who lives in that house away up there asked 
Jerry. 

“The Miss Wests — Rosemary and Ellen,” answered 
Nan. “Di and I are going to take music lessons from 
Miss Rosemary this summer.” 

Una gazed at the lucky twins with eyes whose long- 
ing was too gentle for envy. Oh, if she could only 
have music lessons ! It was one of the dreams of her 
little hidden life. But nobody ever thought of such a 
thing. 

“Miss Rosemary is so sweet and she always dresses 
so pretty,” said Di. “Her hair is just the colour of 
new molasses taffy,” she added wistfully — for Di, like 
her mother before her, was not resigned to her own 
ruddy tresses. 

“I like Miss Ellen, too,” said Nan. “She always 
used to give me candies when she came to church. 
But Di is afraid of her.” 

“Her brows are so black and she has such a great 
deep voice,” said Di. “Oh, how scared of her Ken- 
neth Ford used to be when he was little ! Mother says 
the first Sunday Mrs. Ford brought him to church 
Miss Ellen happened to be there, sitting right behind 
them. And the minute Kenneth saw her he just 


THE MANSE CHILDREN 


41 

screamed and screamed until Mrs. Ford had to carry 
him out.’^ 

‘Who is Mrs. Ford?” asked Una wonderingly. 

“Oh, the Fords don’t live here. They only come 
here in the summer. And they’re not coming this 
summer. They live in that little house ’way, ’way 
down on the harbour shore where father and mother 
used to live. I wish you could see Persis Ford. She 
is just like a picture.” 

“I’ve heard of Mrs. Ford,” broke in Faith. “Bertie 
Shakespeare Drew told me about her. She was mar- 
ried fourteen years to a dead man and then he came 
to life.” 

“Nonsense,” said Nan. “That isn’t the way of it 
at all. Bertie Shakespeare can never get anything 
straight. I know the whole story and I’ll tell it to you 
some time, but not now, for it’s too long and it’s time 
for us to go home. Mother doesn’t like us to be out 
late these damp evenings.” 

Nobody cared whether the manse children were out 
in the damp or not. Aunt Martha was already in bed 
and the minister was still too deeply lost in speculations 
concerning the immortality of the soul to remember 
the mortality of the body. But they went home, too, 
with visions of good times coming in their heads. 

“I think Rainbow Valley is even nicer than the 
graveyard,” said Una. “And I just love those dear 
Blythes. It’s so nice when you can love people because 
so often you can’t. Father said in his sermon last 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


42 

Sunday that we should love everybody. But how can 
we ? How could we love Mrs. Alec Davis 

‘‘Oh, father only said that in the pulpit,^* said Faith 
airily. “He has more sense than to really think it out- 
side.'’ 

The Blythe children went up to Ingleside, except 
Jem, who slipped away for a few moments on a soli- 
tary expedition to a remote corner of Rainbow Valley. 
Mayflowers grew there and Jem never forgot to take 
his mother a bouquet as long as they lasted. 


CHAPTER V 

The Advent of Mary Vance 

is just the sort of day you feel as if things 
X might happen/' said Faith, responsive to the 
lure of crystal air and blue hills. She hugged herself 
with delight and danced a hornpipe on old Hezekiah 
Pollock's bench tombstone, much to the horror of two 
ancient maidens who happened to be driving past just 
as Faith hopped on one foot around the stone, waving 
the other and her arms in the air. 

‘'And that," groaned one ancient maiden, “is our 
minister's daughter." 

“What else could you expect of a widower's 
family ?" groaned the other ancient maiden. And then 
they both shook their heads. 

It was early on Saturday morning and the Merediths 
were out in the dew-drenched world with a delightful 
consciousness of the holiday. They had never had 
anything to do on a holiday. Even Nan and Di Blythe 
had certain household tasks for Saturday mornings, 
but the daughters of the manse were free to roam from 
blushing morn to dewy eve if so it pleased them. It 
did please Faith, but Una felt a secret, bitter humilia- 
tion because they never learned to do anything. The 
other girls in her class at school could cook and sew 
and knit ; she only was a little ignoramus. 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


44 

Jerry suggested that they go exploring; so they went 
lingeringly through the fir grove, picking up Carl on 
the way, who was on his knees in the dripping grass 
studying his darling ants. Beyond the grove they came 
out in Mr. Taylor's pasture field, sprinkled over with 
the white ghosts of dandelions; in a remote corner 
was an old tumbledown barn, where Mr. Taylor some- 
times stored his surplus hay crop but which was never 
used for any other purpose. Thither the Meredith 
children trooped, and prowled about the ground floor 
for several minutes. 

‘What was that ?” whispered Una suddenly. 

They all listened. There was a faint but distinct 
rustle in the hayloft above. The Merediths looked 
at each other. 

“There's something up there," breathed Faith. 

“I'm going up to see what it is," said Jerry reso- 
lutely. 

“Oh, don't," begged Una, catching his arm. 

“I’m going." 

“We'll all go, too, then," said Faith. 

The whole four climbed the shaky ladder, Jerry and 
Faith quite dauntless, Una pale from fright, and Carl 
rather absent-mindedly speculating on the possibility 
of finding a bat up in the loft. He longed to see a bat 
in daylight. 

When they stepped off the ladder they saw what 
had made the rustle and the sight struck them dumb 
for a few moments. 


THE ADVENT OF MARY VANCE 45 

In a little nest in the hay a girl was curled up, look- 
ing as if she had just awakened from sleep. When 
she saw them she stood up, rather shakily, as it seemed, 
and in the bright sunlight that streamed through the 
cobwebbed window behind her, they saw that her 
thin, sunburned face was very pale under its tan. She 
had two braids of lank, thick, tow-coloured hair and 
very odd eyes — “white-eyes,’’ the manse children 
thought, as she stared at them half defiantly, half 
piteously. They were really of so pale a blue that they 
did seem almost white, especially when contrasted with 
the narrow black ring that circled the iris. She was 
barefooted and bareheaded, and was clad in a faded, 
ragged, old plaid dress, much too short and tight for 
her. As for years, she might have been almost any 
age, judging from her wizened little face, but her 
height seemed to be somewhere in the neighbourhood 
of twelve. 

“Who are you?” asked Jerry. 

The girl looked about her as if seeking a way of 
escape. Then she seemed to give in with a little shiver 
of despair. 

“I’m Mary Vance,” she said. 

“Where’d you come from?” pursued Jerry. 

Mary, instead of replying, suddenly sat, or fell, 
down on the hay and began to cry. Instantly Faith 
had flung herself down beside her and put her arm 
about the thin, shaking shoulders. 

“You stop bothering her,” she commanded Jerry. 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


46 

Then she hugged the waif. '^Don’t cry, dear. Just 
tell us what’s the matter. We're friends.” 

'T’m so — so — ^hungry,” wailed Mary. ^T — I haint 
had a thing to eat since Thursday morning, ’cept a 
little water from the brook out there.” 

The manse children gazed at each other in horror. 
Faith sprang up. 

‘You come right up to the manse and get something 
to eat before you say another word.” 

Mary shrank. 

“Oh, — I can’t. What will your pa and ma say? 
Besides, they’d send me back.” 

“We’ve no mother, and father won’t bother about 
you. Neither will Aunt Martha. Come, I say.” 
Faith stamped her foot impatiently. Was this queer 
girl going to insist on starving to death almost at their 
very door? 

Mary yielded. She was so weak that she could 
hardly climb down the ladder, but somehow they got 
her down and over the field and into the manse kitchen. 
Aunt Martha, muddling through her Saturday cook- 
ing, took no notice of her. Faith and Una flew to the 
pantry and ransacked it for such eatables as it con- 
tained — some “ditto,” bread, butter, milk and a doubt- 
ful pie. Mary Vance attacked the food ravenously 
and uncritically, while the manse children stood 
around and watched her. Jerry noticed that she had a 
pretty mouth and very nice, even, white teeth. Faith 
decided, with secret horror, that Mary had not one 


THE ADVENT OF MARY VANCE 47 

stitch on her except that ragged, faded dress. Una 
was full of pure pity, Carl of amused wonder, and all 
of them of curiosity. 

‘‘Now come out to the graveyard and tell us about 
yourself,” ordered Faith, when Mary’s appetite showed 
signs of failing her. Mary was now nothing loth. 
Food had restored her natural vivacity and unloosed 
her by no means reluctant tongue. 

“You won’t tell your pa or anybody if I tell you?” 
she stipulated, when she was enthroned on Mr. Pol- 
lock’s tombstone. Opposite her the manse children 
lined up on another. Here was spice and mystery and 
adventure. Something had happened. 

“No, we won’t.” 

“Cross your hearts ?” 

“Cross our hearts.” 

“Well, I’ve run away. I was living with Mrs. Wiley 
over-harbour. Do you know Mrs. Wiley ?” 

“No.” 

“Well, you don’t want to know her. She’s an awful 
woman. My, how I hate her! She worked me to 
death and wouldn’t give me half enough to eat, and 
she used to larrup me ’most every day. Look a-here.” 

Mary rolled up her ragged sleeves and held up her 
scrawny arms and thin hands, chapped almost to raw- 
ness. They were black with bruises. The manse chil- 
dren shivered. Faith flushed crimson with indignation. 
Una’s blue eyes filled with tears. 

“She licked me Wednesday night with a stick,” said 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


48 

Mary, indifferently. ‘'It was ’cause I let the cow kick 
over a pail of milk. How’d I know the darn old cow 
was going to kick ?” 

A not unpleasant thrill ran over her listeners. They 
would never dream of using such dubious words, but 
it was rather titivating to hear some one else use them 
— and a girl, at that. Certainly this Mary Vance was 
an interesting creature. 

‘T don’t blame you for running away,” said Faith. 

“Oh, I didn’t run away ’cause she licked me. A 
licking was all in the day’s work with me. I was dam 
well used to it. Nope, I’d meant to run away for a 
week ’cause I’d found out that Mrs. Wiley was going 
to rent her farm and go to Lowbridge to live and give 
me to a cousin of hers up Charlottetown way. I 
wasn’t going to stand for that. She was a worse sort 
than Mrs. Wiley even. Mrs. Wiley lent me to her for 
a month last summer and I’d rather live with the devil 
himself.” 

Sensation number two. But Una looked doubtful. 

“So I made up my mind I’d beat it. I had seventy 
cents saved up that Mrs. John Crawford give me in 
the spring for planting potatoes for her. Mrs. Wiley 
didn’t know about it. She was away visiting her 
cousin when I planted them. I thought I’d sneak up 
here to the Glen and buy a ticket to Charlottetown and 
try to get work there. I’m a hustler, let me tell you. 
There ain’t a lazy bone in my body. So I lit out Thurs- 
day morning ’fore Mrs. Wiley was up and walked to 


THE ADVENT OF MARY VANCE 49 

the Glen — six miles. And when I got to the station 
I found I’d lost my money. Dunno how — dunno 
where. Anyhow, it was gone. I didn’t know what 
to do. If I went back to old Lady Wiley she’d take 
the hide off me. So I went and hid in that old 
barn.” 

‘‘And what will you do now?” asked Jerry. 

“Dunno. I s’pose I’ll have to go back and take my 
medicine. Now that I’ve got some grub in my stomach 
I guess I can stand it.” 

But there was fear behind the bravado in Mary’s 
eyes. Una suddenly slipped from the one tombstone 
to the other and put her arm about Mary. 

“Don’t go back. Just stay here with us.” 

“Oh, Mrs. Wiley’ll hunt me up,” said Mary. “It’s 
likely she’s on my trail before this. I might stay here 
till she finds me, I s’pose, if your folks don’t mind. 
I was a darn fool ever to think of skipping out. She’d 
run a weasel to earth. But I was so misrebul.” 

Mary’s voice quivered, but she was ashamed of 
showing her weakness. 

“I hain’t had the life of a dog for these four years,” 
she explained defiantly. 

“You’ve been four years with Mrs. Wiley?” 

“Yip. She took me out of the asylum over in Hope- 
town when I was eight.” 

“That’s the same place Mrs. Blythe came from,” 
exclaimed Faith. 

“I was two years in the asylum. I was put there 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


50 

when I was six. My ma had hung herself and my 
pa had cut his throat.” 

‘‘Holy cats! Why?” said Jerry. 

“Booze,” said Mary laconically. 

“And youVe no relations?” 

“Not a darn one that I know of. Must have had 
some once, though. I was called after half a dozen 
of them. My full name is Mary Martha Lucilla Moore 
Ball Vance. Can you beat that? My grandfather was 
a rich man. Fll bet he was richer than your grand- 
father. But pa drunk it all up and ma, she did her 
part. They used to beat me, too. Laws, Fve been 
licked so much I kind of like it.” 

Mary tossed her head. She divined that the manse 
children were pitying her for her many stripes and she 
did not want pity. She wanted to be envied. She 
looked gaily about her. Her strange eyes, now that 
the dullness of famine was removed from them, were 
brilliant. She would show these youngsters what a 
personage she was. 

“Fve been sick an awful lot,” she said proudly. 
“There's not many kids could have come through 
what I have. Fve had scarlet fever and measles and 
ersipelas and mumps and whooping cough and pew- 
monia.” 

“Were you ever fatally sick?” asked Una. 

“I don’t know,” said Mary doubtfully. 

“Of course she wasn’t,” scoffed Jerry. “If you’re 
fatally sick you die.” 


THE ADVENT OF MARY VANCE 51 

‘‘Oh, well, I never died exactly,” said Mary, “but 
I come blamed near it once. They thought I was dead 
and they were getting ready to lay me out when I up 
and come to.” 

“What is it like to be half dead?” asked Jerry curi- 
ously. 

“Like nothing. I didn't know it for days after- 
wards. It was when I had the pewmonia. Mrs. Wiley 
wouldn't have the doctor — said she wasn't going to 
no such expense for a home girl. Old Aunt Christina 
McAllister nursed me with poultices. She brung me 
round. But sometimes I wish I'd just died the other 
half and done with it. I'd been better oif.” 

“If you went to heaven I s'pose you would,” said 
Faith rather dubiously. 

“Well, what other place is there to go to?” de- 
manded Mary in a puzzled tone. 

“There's hell, you know,” said Una, dropping her 
voice and hugging Mary to lessen the awfulness of the 
suggestion. 

“Hell? What's that?” 

“Why, it's where the devil lives,” said Jerry. 
“You've heard of him — ^you spoke about him.” 

“Oh, yes, but I didn't know he lived anywhere. I 
thought he just roamed round. Mr. Wiley used to 
mention hell when he was alive. He was always tell- 
ing folks to go there. I thought it was some place over 
in New Brunswick where he come from.” 

“Hell is an awful place,” said Faith, with the dra- 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


52 

matic enjoyment that is born of telling dreadful things. 
“Bad people go there when they die and burn in fire 
for ever and ever and ever.” 

“Who told you that?” demanded Mary incredu- 
lously. 

“It’s in the Bible. And Mr. Isaac Crothers at May- 
water told us, too, in Sunday School. He was an elder 
and a pillar in the church and knew all about it. But 
you needn’t worry. If you’re good you’ll go to heaven 
and if you’re bad I guess you’d rather go to hell.” 

“I wouldn’t,” said Mary positively. “No matter 
how bad I was I wouldn’t want to be burned and 
burned. I know what it’s like. I picked up a red hot 
poker once by accident. What must you do to be 
good?” 

“You must go to church and Sunday School and 
read your Bible and pray every night and give to mis- 
sions,” said Una. 

“It sounds like a large order,” said Mary. “Any- 
thing else?” 

“You must ask God to forgive the sins you’ve com- 
mitted.” 

“But I’ve never com — committed any,” said Mary. 
“What’s a sin any way ?” 

“Oh, Mary, you must have. Everybody does. Did 
you never tell a lie ?” 

“Heaps of ’em,” said Mary. 

“That’s a dreadful sin,” said Una solemnly. 

“Do you mean to tell me,” demanded Mary, “that 


THE ADVENT OF MARY VANCE 53 

rd be sent to hell for telling a lie now and then ? Why, 
I had to. Mr. Wiley would have broken every bone 
in my body one time if I hadn’t told him a lie. Lies 
have saved me many a whack, I can tell you.” 

Una sighed. Here were too many difficulties for 
her to solve. She shuddered as she thought of being 
cruelly whipped. Very likely she would have lied too. 
She squeezed Mary’s little calloused hand. 

‘‘Is that the only dress you’ve got?” asked Faith, 
whose joyous nature refused to dwell on disagreeable 
subjects. 

“I just put on this dress because it was no good,” 
cried Mary flushing. “Mrs. Wiley’d bought my clothes 
and I wasn’t going to be beholden to her for anything. 
And I’m honest. If I was going to run away I wasn’t 
going to take what belonged to her that was worth any- 
thing. When I grow up I’m going to have a blue 
sating dress. Your own clothes don’t look so stylish. 
I thought minister’s children were always dressed up.” 

It was plain that Mary had a temper and was sensi- 
tive on some points. But there was a queer, wild 
charm about her which captivated them all. She was 
taken to Rainbow Valley that afternoon and intro- 
duced to the Blythes as “a friend of ours from over 
harbour who is visiting us.” The Blythes accepted her 
unquestioningly, perhaps because she was outwardly 
fairly respectable now. After dinner — through which 
Aunt Martha had mumbled and Mr. Meredith had 
been in a state of semi-unconsciousness while brooding 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


54 

his Sunday sermon — Faith had prevailed on Mary to 
put on one of her dresses, as well as certain other 
articles of clothing. With her hair neatly braided 
Mary passed muster tolerably well. She was an ac- 
ceptable playmate, for she knew several new and ex- 
citing games, and her conversation lacked not spice. 
In fact, some of her expressions made Nan and Di 
look at her rather askance. They were not quite sure 
what their mother would have thought of her, but 
they knew quite well what Susan would. However, 
she was a visitor at the manse, so she must be all right. 

When bedtime came there was the problem of where 
Mary should sleep. 

*‘We can’t put her in the spare room, you know,” 
said Faith perplexedly to Una. 

“I haven’t got anything in my head,” cried Mary in 
an injured tone. 

‘‘Oh, I didn’t mean that/' protested Faith. ‘‘The 
spare room is all torn up. The mice have gnawed a 
big hole in the feather tick and made a nest in it. We 
never found it out till Aunt Martha put the Rev. Mr. 
Fisher from Charlottetown there to sleep last week. 
He soon found it out. Then father had to give him 
his bed and sleep on the study lounge. Aunt Martha 
hasn’t had time to fix the spare room bed up yet, so 
she says; so nobody can sleep there, no matter how 
clean their heads are. And our room is so small, and 
the bed so small you can’t sleep with us.” 

“I can go back to the hay in the old barn for the 


THE ADVENT OF MARY VANCE 55 

night if you^ll lend me a quilt/’ said Mary philosophi- 
cally. ‘‘It was kind of chilly last night, but ’cept for 
that Fve had worse beds.” 

*'Oh, no, no, you mustn’t do that,” said Una. ‘‘I’ve 
thought of a plan. Faith. You know that little trestle 
bed in the garret room, with the old mattress on it, 
that the last minister left there? Let’s take up the 
spare room bedclothes and make Mary a bed there. 
You won’t mind sleeping in the garret, will you, Mary? 
It’s just above our room.” 

‘'Any place’ll do me. Laws, I never had a decent 
place to sleep in in my life. I slept in the loft over 
the kitchen at Mrs. Wiley’s. The roof leaked rain in 
summer and the snow druv in in winter. My bed was 
a straw tick on the floor. You won’t find me a mite 
huffy about where I sleep.” 

The manse garret was a long, low, shadowy place, 
with one gable end partitioned off. Here a bed was 
made up for Mary of the dainty hemstitched sheets 
and embroidered spread which Cecilia Meredith had 
once so proudly made for her spare room, and which 
still survived Aunt Martha’s uncertain washings. The 
goodnights were said and silence fell over the manse. 
Una was just falling asleep when she heard a sound 
in the room just above that made her sit up suddenly. 

“Listen, Faith— Mary’s crying,” she whispered. 
Faith replied not, being already asleep. Una slipped 
out of bed, and made her way in her little white gown 
down the hall and up the garret stairs. The creaking 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


56 

garret floor gave ample notice of her coming, and when 
she reached the corner room all was moonlit silence 
and the trestle bed showed only a hump in the middle. 

“Mary,” whispered Una. 

There was no response. 

Una crept close to the bed and pulled at the spread. 
“Mary, I know you are crying. I heard you. Are 
you lonesome?” 

Mary suddenly appeared to view but said nothing. 

“Let me in beside you. Fm cold,” said Una shiver- 
ing in the chilly air, for the little garret window was 
open and the keen breath of the north shore at night 
blew in. 

Mary moved over and Una snuggled down beside 
her. 

''Now you won’t be lonesome. We shouldn’t have 
left you here alone the first night.” 

“I wasn’t lonesome,” sniffed Mary. 

“What were you crying for then?” 

“Oh, I just got to thinking of things when I was 
here alone. I thought of having to go back to Mrs. 
Wiley — and of being licked for running away — and — 
and — and of going to hell for telling lies. It all wor- 
ried me something scandalous.” 

“Oh, Mary,” said poor Una in distress. “I don’t 
believe God will send you to hell for telling lies when 
you didn’t know it was wrong. He couldn't. Why, 
He’s kind and good. Of course, you mustn’t tell any 
more now that you know it’s wrong.” 


THE ADVENT OF MARY VANCE 57 

‘‘If I can’t tell lies what’s to become of me?” said 
Mary with a sob. *'You don’t understand. You don’t 
know anything about it. You got a home and a kind 
father — though it does seem to me that he isn’t more’n 
about half there. But anyway he doesn’t lick you, and 
you get enough to eat such as it is — though that old 
aunt of yours doesn’t know anything about cooking. 
Why, this is the first day I ever remember of feeling 
’sif I’d enough to eat. I’ve been knocked about all my 
life, ’cept for the two years I was at the asylum. They 
didn’t lick me there and it wasn’t too bad, though the 
matron was cross. She always looked ready to bite 
the head off a nail. But Mrs. Wiley is a holy terror, 
that’s what she is, and I’m just scared stiff when I 
think of going back to her.” 

'Terhaps you won’t have to. Perhaps we’ll be able 
to think of a way out. Let’s both ask God to keep you 
from having to go back to Mrs. Wiley. You say your 
prayers, don’t you Mary?” 

''Oh, yes, I always go over an old rhyme ’fore I 
get into bed,” said Mary indifferently. "I never 
thought of asking for anything in particular though. 
Nobody in this world ever bothered themselves about 
me so I didn’t s’pose God would. He might take more 
trouble for you, seeing you’re a minister’s daughter.” 

"He’d take every bit as much trouble for you, Mary, 
I’m sure,” said Una. "It doesn’t matter whose child 
you are. You just ask Him — and I will, too.” 

"All right,” agreed Mary. "It won’t do any harm 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


58 

if it doesn’t do much good. If you knew Mrs. Wiley 
as well as I do you wouldn’t think God would want to 
meddle with her. Anyhow, I won’t cry any more 
about it. This is a big sight better’n last night down 
in that old barn, with the mice running about. Look 
at the Four Winds light. Ain’t it pretty?” 

“This is the only window we can see it from,” said 
Una. “I love to watch it.” 

“Do you? So do I. I could see it from the Wiley 
loft and it was the only comfort I had. When I was 
all sore from being licked I’d watch it and forget about 
the places that hurt. I’d think of the ships sailing 
away and away from it and wish I was on one of them 
sailing far away too — away from everything. In win- 
ter nights when it didn’t shine, I just felt real lone- 
some. Say, Una, what makes all you folks so kind to 
me when I’m just a stranger?” 

“Because it’s right to be. The Bible tells us to be 
kind to everybody.” 

“Does it? Well, I guess most folks don’t mind it 
much then. I never remember of any one being kind 
to me before — true’s you live I don’t. Say, Una, ain’t 
them shadows on the wall pretty? They look just like 
,a flock of little dancing birds. And say, Una, I like 
all you folks and them Blythe boys and Di, but I 
don’t like that Nan. She’s a proud one.” 

“Oh, no, Mary, she isn’t a bit proud,” said Una 
eagerly. “Not a single bit.” 


THE ADVENT OF MARY VANCE 59 

‘‘Don’t tell me. Any one that holds her head like 
that is proud. I don’t like her.” 
all like her very much.” 

“Oh, I s’pose you like her better’n me?” said Mary 
jealously. “Do you?” 

“Why, Mary — ^we’ve known her for weeks and 
we’ve only known you a few hours,” stammered Una. 

“So you do like her better then?” said Mary in a 
rage. “All right ! Like her all you want to. I don’t 
care. / can get along without you.” 

She flung herself over against the wall of the garret 
with a slam. 

“Oh, Mary,” said Una, pushing a tender arm over 
Mary’s uncompromising back, “don’t talk like that. I 
do like you ever so much. And you make me feel so 
bad.” 

No answer. Presently Una gave a sob. Instantly 
Mary squirmed around again and engulfed Una in a 
bear’s hug. 

“Hush up,” she ordered. “Don’t go crying over 
what I said. I was as mean as the devil to talk tliat 
way. I orter to be skinned alive — and you all so good 
to me. I should think you would like any one better’n 
me. I deserve every licking I ever got. Hush, now. 
If you cry any more I’ll go and walk right down ta 
the harbour in this night dress and drown myself.” 

This terrible threat made Una choke back her sobs. 
Her tears were wiped away by Mary with the lace frill 


6o 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


of the spare room pillow and forgiver and forgiven 
cuddled down together again, harmony restored, to 
watch the shadows of the vine leaves on the moonlit 
wall until they fell asleep. 

And in the study below the Rev. John Meredith 
walked the floor with rapt face and shining eyes, think- 
ing out his message of the morrow, and knew not that 
under his own roof there was a little forlorn soul, 
stumbling in darkness and ignorance, beset by terror 
and compassed about with difficulties too great for it 
to grapple in its unequal struggle with a big indifferent 
world. 


CHAPTER VI 

Mary Stays at the Manse 

T he manse children took Mary Vance to church 
with them the next day. At first Mary objected 
to the idea. 

‘^Didn't you go to church over-harbour ?’" asked Una. 
‘‘You bet. Mrs. Wiley never troubled church much, 
but I went every Sunday I could get off. I was mighty 
thankful to go to some place where I could sit down 
for a spell. But I can't go to church in this old ragged 
dress." 

This difficulty was removed by Faith offering the 
loan of her second best dress. 

“It's faded a little and two of the buttons are off, 
but I guess it'll do." 

“I'll sew the buttons on in a jiffy/’ said Mary. 

“Not on Sunday," said Una, shocked. 

“Sure. The better the day the better the deed. You 
just gimme a needle and thread and look the other way 
if you're squeamish." 

Faith's school boots, and an old black velvet cap 
that had once been Cecilia Meredith's, completed 
Mary's costume, and to church she went. Her be- 
haviour was quite conventional, and though some won- 
dered who the shabby little girl with the manse chil- 

6l 


62 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


dren was she did not attract much attention. She 
listened to the sermon with outward decorum and 
joined lustily in the singing. She had, it appeared, a 
clear, strong voice and a good ear. 

^'His blood can make the violets clean,^^ carolled 
Mary blithely. Mrs. Jimmy Milgrave, whose pew was 
just in front of the manse pew, turned suddenly and 
looked the child over from top to toe. Mary, in a mere 
superfluity of naughtiness, stuck her tongue out at 
Mrs. Milgrave, much to Una’s horror. 

“I couldn’t help it,” she declared after church. 

What’d she want to stare at me like that for ? Such 
manners! I’m glad I stuck my tongue out at her. I 
wish I’d stuck it further out. Say, I saw Rob Mac- 
Allister from over-harbour there. Wonder if he’ll tell 
Mrs. Wiley on me.” 

No Mrs. Wiley appeared, however, and in a few 
days the children forgot to look for her. Mary was 
apparently a fixture at the manse. But she refused to 
go to school with the others. 

“Nope. I’ve finished my education,” she said, when 
Faith urged her to go. “I went to school four winters 
since I come to Mrs. Wiley’s and I’ve had all I want 
of that. I’m sick and tired of being everlastingly jawed 
at ’cause I didn’t get my home lessons done. Fd no 
time to do home lessons.” 

“Our teacher won’t jaw you. He is awfully nice,” 
said Faith. 

“Well, I ain’t going. I can read and write and 


MARY STAYS AT THE MANSE 63 

cipher up to fractions. That’s all I want. You fellows 
go and I’ll stay home. You needn’t be scared I’ll steal 
anything. I swear I’m honest.” 

Mary employed herself while the others were in 
school in cleaning up the manse. In a few days it was 
a different place. Floors were swept, furniture dusted, 
everything straightened out. She mended the spare- 
room bed-tick, she sewed on missing buttons, she 
patched clothes neatly, she even invaded the study with 
broom and dust-pan and ordered Mr. Meredith out 
while she put it to rights. But there was one depart- 
ment with which Aunt Martha refused to let her inter- 
fere. Aunt Martha might be deaf and half blind and 
very childish, but she was resolved to keep the com- 
missariat in her own hands, in spite of all Mary’s wiles 
and stratagems. 

‘T can tell you if old Martha’d let me cook you’d 
have some decent meals,” she told the manse children 
indignantly. ‘There’d be no more 'ditto’ — and no 
more lumpy porridge and blue milk either. What does 
she do with all the cream?” 

"She gives it to the cat. He’s hers, you know,” said 
Faith. 

"I’d like to cat her,” exclaimed Mary bitterly. "I’ve 
no use for cats anyhow. They belong to the old Nick. 
You can tell that by their eyes. Well, if old Martha 
won’t, she won’t, I s’pose. But it gits on my nerves 
to see good vittles spoiled.” 

When school came out they always went to Rainbow 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


64 

Valley. Mary refused to play in the graveyard. She 
declared she was afraid of ghosts. 

“There^s no such thing as ghosts/' declared Jem 
Blythe. 

^‘Oh, ain't there?” 

‘^Did you ever see any ?” 

‘'Hundreds of ’em,” said Mary promptly. 

‘'What are they like ?” said Carl. 

"Awful-looking. Dressed all in white with skelling- 
ton hands and heads,” said Mary. 

"What did you do ?” asked Una. 

"Run like the devil,” said Mary. Then she caught 
Walter’s eyes and blushed. Mary was a good deal in 
awe of Walter. She declared to the manse girls that 
his eyes made her nervous. 

"I think of all the lies I’ve ever told when I look 
into them,” she said, "and wish I hadn’t.” 

Jem was Mary’s favourite. When he took her to 
the attic at Ingleside and showed her the museum of 
curios that Captain Jim Boyd had bequeathed to him 
she was immensely pleased and flattered. She also 
won Carl’s heart entirely by her interest in his beetles 
and ants. It could not be denied that Mary got on 
rather better with the boys than with the girls. She 
quarrelled bitterly with Nan Blythe the second day. 

"Your mother is a witch,” she told Nan scornfully. 
"Red-haired women are always witches.” Then she 
and Faith fell out about the rooster. Mary said its 
tail was too short. Faith angrily retorted that she 


MARY STAYS AT THE MANSE 65 

guessed God knew what length to make a rooster’s tail. 
They did not ‘‘speak” for a day over this. Mary 
treated Una’s hairless, one-eyed doll with considera- 
tion ; but when Una showed her other prized treasure — 
a picture of an angel carrying a baby, presumably to 
heaven, Mary declared that it looked too much like a 
ghost for her. Una crept away to her room and cried 
over this, but Mary hunted her out, hugged her repent- 
antly and implored forgiveness. No one could keep 
up a quarrel long with Mary — not even Nan, who was 
rather prone to hold grudges and never quite forgave 
the insult to her mother. Mary was jolly. She could 
and did tell the most thrilling ghost stories. Rainbow 
Valley seances were undeniably more exciting after 
Mary came. She learned to play on the jews-harp and 
soon eclipsed Jerry. 

“Never struck anything yet I couldn’t do if I put 
my mind to it,” she declared. Mary seldom lost a 
chance of tooting her own horn. She taught them 
how to make “blow-bags” out of the thick leaves of 
the “live-forever” that flourished in the old Bailey 
garden, she initiated them into the toothsome qualities 
of the “sours” that grew in the niches of the grave- 
yard dyke, and she could make the most wonderful 
shadow pictures on the walls with her long, flexible 
fingers. And when they all went picking gum in Rain- 
bow Valley Mary always got “the biggest chew” and 
bragged about it. There were times when they hated 
her and times when they loved her. But at all times 


66 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


they found her interesting. So they submitted quite 
meekly to her bossing, and by the end of a fortnight 
had come to feel that she must always have been with 
them. 

‘'It’s the queerest thing that Mrs. Wiley hain’t been 
after me,” said Mary. “I can’t understand it.” 

“Maybe she isn’t going to bother about you at all,” 
said Una. “Then you can just go on staying here.” 

“This house ain’t hardly big enough for me and old 
Martha,” said Mary darkly. “It’s a very fine thing 
to have enough to eat — I’ve often wondered what it 
would be like — ^but I’m p’ticler about my cooking. 
And Mrs. Wiley’ll be l^ere yet. She’s got a rod in 
pickle for me all right. I don’t think about it so much 
in day-time but say, girls, up there in that garret at 
night I git to thinking and thinking of it, till I just 
almost wish she’d come and have it over with. I 
dunno’s one real good whipping would be much worse’n 
all the dozen I’ve lived through in my mind ever since 
I run away. Were any of you ever licked?” 

“No, of course not,” said Faith indignantly. 
“Father would never do such a thing.” 

“You don’t know you’re alive,” said Mary with a 
sigh half of envy, half of superiority. “You don’t 
know what I’ve come through. And I s’pose the 
Blythes were never licked either?” 

“No-o-o, I guess not. But I think they were some- 
times spanked when they were small.” 

“A spanking doesn’t amount to anything,” said 


MARY STAYS AT THE MANSE 67 

Mary contemptuously. ‘‘If my folks had just spanked 
me rd have thought they were petting me. Well, it 
ain^t a fair world. I wouldn't mind taking my share 
of wallopings but Tve had a darn sight too many." 

“It isn’t right to say that word, Mary," said Una 
reproachfully. “You promised me you wouldn’t say 
it." 

“G’way," responded Mary. “If you knew some of 
the words I could say if I liked you wouldn’t make 
such a fuss over darn. And you know very well I 
hain’t ever told any lies since I come here." 

“What about all those ghosts you said you saw?" 
asked Faith. 

Mary blushed. 

“That was diff’runt," she said defiantly. “I knew 
you wouldn’t believe them yarns and I didn’t intend 
you to. And I really did see something queer one 
night when I was passing the over-harbour graveyard, 
true’s you live. I dunno whether ’twas a ghost or 
Sandy Crawford’s old white nag, but it looked blamed 
queer and I tell you I scooted at the rate of no man’s 
business." 


CHAPTER VII 
A Fishy Episode 

R ill A BLYTHE walked proudly, and perhaps a 
little primly, through the main ''street'' of the 
Glen and up the manse hill, carefully carrying a small 
basketful of early strawberries, which Susan had 
coaxed into lusciousness in one of the sunny nooks of 
Ingleside. Susan had charged Rilla to give the basket 
to nobody except Aunt Martha or Mr. Meredith, and 
Rilla, very proud of being entrusted with such an 
errand, was resolved to carry out her instructions to 
the letter. 

Susan had dressed her daintily in a white, starched, 
and embroidered dress, with sash of blue and beaded 
slippers. Her long ruddy curls were sleek and round, 
and Susan had let her put on her best hat, out of 
compliment to the manse. It was a somewhat elaborate 
affair, wherein Susan's taste had had more to say than 
Anne's, and Rilla's small soul gloried in its splendours 
of silk and lace and flowers. She was very conscious 
of her hat, and I am afraid she strutted up the manse 
hill. The strut, or the hat, or both, got on the nerves 
of Mary Vance, who was swinging on the lawn gate. 
Mary's temper was somewhat ruffled just then, into 
the bargain. Aunt Martha had refused to let her peel 
the potatoes and had ordered her out of the kitchen. 

68 


A FISHY EPISODE 


69 

“Yah! You’ll bring the potatoes to the table with 
strips of skin hanging to them and half boiled as usual 1 
My, but it’ll be nice to go to your funeral,” shrieked 
Mary. ' She went out of the kitchen, giving the door 
such a bang that even Aunt Martha heard it, and Mr. 
Meredith in his study felt the vibration and thought 
absently that there must have been a slight earthquake 
shock. Then he went on with his sermon. 

Mary slipped from the gate and confronted the 
spick and span damsel of Ingleside. 

“What you got there ?” she demanded, trying to take 
the basket. 

Rilla resisted. “It’th for Mithter Meredith,” she 
lisped. 

“Give it to me. /’ll give it to him,” said Mary. 

“No. Thuthan thaid I wathn’t to give it to anybody 
but Mithter Mer’dith or Aunt Martha,” insisted Rilla. 

Mary eyed her sourly. 

“You think you’re something, don’t you, all dressed 
up like a doll ? Look at me. My dress is all rags and 
I don’t care! I’d rather be ragged than a doll baby. 
Go home and tell them to put you in a glass case. Look 
at me — look at me — look at me !” 

Mary executed a wild dance around the dismayed 
and bewildered Rilla, flirting her ragged skirt and 
vociferating “Look at me — look at me” until poor 
Rilla was dizzy. But as the latter tried to edge away 
towards the gate Mary pounced on her again. 

“You give me that basket,” she ordered with a 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


grimace. Mary was past mistress in the art of '"mak- 
ing faces.” She could give her countenance a most 
grotesque and unearthly appearance out of which her 
strange, brilliant, white eyes gleamed with weird effect. 

‘‘I won^t,” gasped Rilla, frightened but staunch. 
‘You let me go, Mary Vanth.” 

Mary let go for a minute and looked around her. 
Just inside the gate was a small “flake,” on which half 
a dozen large codfish were drying. One of Mr. 
Meredith^s parishioners had presented him with them 
one day, perhaps in lieu of the subscription he was 
supposed to pay to the stipend and never did. Mr. 
Meredith had thanked him and then forgotten all 
about the fish, which would have promptly spoiled had 
not the indefatigable Mary prepared them for drying 
and rigged up the “flake” herself on which to dry 
them. 

Mary had a diabolical inspiration. She flew to the 
“flake” and seized the largest fish there — a huge, flat 
thing, nearly as big as herself. With a whoop she 
swooped down on the terrified Rilla, brandishing her 
weird missile. Rilla’s courage gave way. To be lam- 
basted with a dried codfish was such an unheard-of 
thing that Rilla could not face it. With a shriek she 
dropped her basket and fled. The beautiful berries, 
which Susan had so tenderly selected for the minister, 
rolled in a rosy torrent over the dusty road and were 
trodden on by the flying feet of pursuer and pursued. 
The basket and contents were no longer in Mary's 


A FISHY EPISODE 


71 

mind. She thought only of the delight of giving Rilla 
Blythe the scare of her life. She would teach her to 
come giving herself airs because of her fine clothes. 

Rilla flew down the hill and along the street. Terror 
lent wings to her feet, and she just managed to keep 
ahead of Mary, who was somewhat hampered by her 
own laughter, but who had breath enough to give occa- 
sional blood-curdling whoops as she ran, flourishing her 
codfish in the air. Through the Glen street they swept, 
while everybody ran to the windows and gates to see 
them. Mary felt she was making a tremendous sensa- 
tion and enjoyed it. Rilla, blind with terror and spent 
of breath, felt that she could run no longer. In an- 
other instant that terrible girl would be on her with 
the codfish. At this point the poor mite stumbled and 
fell into the mud-puddle at the end of the street just 
as Miss Cornelia came out of Carter Flagg’s store. 

Miss Cornelia took the whole situation in at a glance. 
So did Mary. The latter stopped short in her mad 
career and before Miss Cornelia could speak she had 
whirled around and was running up as fast as she had 
run down. Miss Cornelia’s lips tightened ominously, 
but she knew it was no use to think of chasing her. So 
she picked up poor, sobbing, dishevelled Rilla instead 
and took her home. Rilla was heart broken. Her 
dress and slippers and hat were ruined and her six year 
old pride had received terrible bruises. 

Susan, white with indignation, heard Miss Cor- 
nelia’s story of Mary Vance’s exploit. 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


72 

“Oh, the hussy — oh, the little hussy!” she said, as 
she carried Rilla away for purification and comfort. 

“This thing has gone far enough, Anne dearie,” said 
Miss Cornelia resolutely. “Something must be done. 
Who is this creature who is staying at the manse and 
where does she come from?” ♦ 

“I understood she was a little girl from over-harbour 
who was visiting at the manse,” answered Anne, who 
saw the comical side of the codfish chase and secretly 
thought Rilia was rather vain and needed a lesson or 
two. 

“I know all the over-harbour families who come to 
our church and that imp doesn’t belong to any of 
them,” retorted Miss Cornelia. “She is almost in rags 
and when she goes to church she wears Faith Mere- 
dith’s old clothes. There’s some mystery here, and 
I’m going to investigate it, since it seems nobody else 
will. I believe she was at the bottom of their goings-on 
in Warren Mead’s spruce bush the other day. Did 
you hear of their frightening his mother into a fit?” 

“No. I knew Gilbert had been called to see her, but 
I did not hear what the trouble was.” 

“Well, you know she has a weak heart. And one 
day last week, when she was all alone on the veranda, 
she heard the most awful shrieks of “murder” and 
“help” coming from the bush — positively frightful 
sounds, Anne dearie. Her heart gave out at once. 
Warren heard them himself at the barn, and went 


A FISHY EPISODE 


73 

straigiit to the bush to investigate, and there he found 
all the manse children sitting on a fallen tree and 
screaming ''murder’' at the top of their lungs. They 
told him they were only in fun and didn’t think any 
one would hear them. They were just playing Indian 
ambush. Warren went back to the house and found 
. his poor mother unconscious on the veranda.” 

Susan, who had returned, sniffed contemptuously. 

"I think she was very far from being unconscious, 
Mrs. Marshall Elliott, and tha/t you may tie to. I 
have been hearing of Amelia Warren’s weak heart for 
forty years. She had it when she was twenty. She 
enjoys making a fuss and having the doctor, and any 
excuse will do.” 

'T don’t think Gilbert thought her attack very seri- 
ous,” said Anne. 

"Oh, that may very well be,” said Miss Cornelia. 
"But the matter has made an awful lot of talk and the 
Meads being Methodists makes it that much worse. 
What is going to become of those children? Some- 
times I can’t sleep at nights for thinking about them, 
Anne dearie. I really do question if they get enough to 
eat, eyen, for their father is so lost in dreams that he 
doesn’t often remember he has a stomach, and that 
lazy old woman doesn’t bother cooking what she ought. 
They are just running wild and now that school is 
closing they’ll be worse than ever.” 

"They do have jolly times,” said Anne, laughing 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


74 

over the recollections of some Rainbow Valley happen- 
ings that had come to her ears. ‘‘And they are all 
brave and frank and loyal and truthful.” 

“That’s a true word, Anne dearie, and when you 
come to think of all the trouble in the church those two 
tattling, deceitful youngsters of the last minister’s 
made I’m inclined to overlook a good deal in the 
Merediths.” 

“When all is said and done, Mrs. Dr. dear, they are 
very nice children,” said Susan. “They have got 
plenty of original sin in them and that I will admit, 
but maybe it is just as well, for if they had not they 
might spoil from over-sweetness. Only I do think it 
is not proper for them to play in a graveyard and that 
I will maintain.” 

“But they really play quite quietly there,” excused 
Anne. “They don’t run and yell as they do elsewhere. 
Such howls as drift up here from Rainbow Valley 
sometimes 1 Though I fancy my own small fry bear 
a valiant part in them. They had a sham battle there 
last night and had to “roar” themselves, because they 
had no artillery to do it, so Jem says. Jem is passing 
through the stage where all boys hanker to be soldiers.” 

“Well, thank goodness, he’ll never be a soldier,” 
said Miss Cornelia. “I never approved of our boys 
going to that South African fracas. But it’s over, and 
not likely anything of the kind will ever happen again. 
I think the world is getting more sensible. As for the 


A FISHY EPISODE 


75 

Merediths, Fve said many a time and I say it again, if 
Mr. Meredith had a wife all would be well.” 

^'He called twice at the Kirks’ last week, so I am 
told,” said Susan. 

'"Well,” said Miss Cornelia thoughtfully, ''as a rule, 
I don’t approve of a minister marrying in his congre- 
gation. It generally spoils him. But in this case it 
would do no harm, for every one likes Elizabeth Kirk 
and nobody else is hankering for the job of step- 
mothering those youngsters. Even the Hill girls balk 
at that. They haven’t been found laying traps for Mr. 
Meredith. Elizabeth would make him a good wife if 
he only thought so. But the trouble is, she really is 
homely and,. Anne dearie, Mr. Meredith, abstracted 
as he is, has an eye for a good-looking woman, man- 
like. He isn’t so other-worldly when it comes to that, 
believe me/' 

"Elizabeth Kirk is a very nice person, but they do 
say that people have nearly frozen to death in her 
mother’s spare-room bed before now, Mrs. Dr. dear,” 
said Susan darkly. "If I felt I had any right to ex- 
press an opinion concerning such a solemn matter as 
a minister’s marriage I would say that I think Eliza- 
beth’s cousin Sarah, over-harbour, would make Mr. 
Meredith a better wife.” 

"Why, Sarah Kirk is a Methodist,” said Miss Cor- 
nelia, much as if Susan had suggested a Hottentot as 
a manse bride. 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


76 

‘‘She would likely turn Presbyterian if she married 
Mr. Meredith/’ retorted Susan. 

Miss Cornelia shook her head. Evidently with her 
it was, once a Methodist, always a Methodist. 

“Sarah Kirk is entirely out of the question,” she 
said positively. “And so is Emmeline Drew — though 
the Drews are all trying to make the match. They 
are literally throwing poor Emmeline at his head, and 
he hasn’t the least idea of it.” 

“Emmeline Drew has no gumption, I must allow,” 
said Susan. “She is the kind of woman, Mrs. Dr. 
dear, who would put a hot water bottle in your bed on 
a dog-night and then have her feelings hurt because 
you were not grateful. And her mother was a very 
poor housekeeper. Did you ever hear the story of her 
dishcloth? She lost her dishcloth one day. But the 
next day she found it. Oh, yes, Mrs. Dr. dear, she 
found it, in the goose at the dinner table, mixed up 
with the stuffing. Do you think a woman like that 
would do for a minister’s mother-in-law? I do not. 
But no doubt I would be better employed in mending 
little Jem’s trousers than in talking gossip about my 
neighbours.. He tore them something scandalous last 
night in Rainbow Valley.” 

“Where is Walter?” asked Anne. 

“He is up to no good, I fear, Mrs. Dr. dear. He is 
in the attic writing something in an exercise book. 
And he has not done as well in arithmetic this term 
as he should, so the teacher tells me. Too well I know 


A FISHY EPISODE 


77 

the reason why. He has been writing silly rhymes 
when he should have been doing his sums. I am afraid 
that boy is going to be a poet, Mrs. Dr. dear.'' 

*'He is a poet now, Susan." 

*Well, you take it real calm, Mrs. Dr. dear. I sup- 
pose it is the best way, when a person has the strength. 
I had an uncle who began by being a poet and ended 
up by being a tramp. Our family were dreadfully 
ashamed of him." 

'You don't seem to think very highly of poets, 
Susan," said Anne, laughing. 

"Who does, Mrs. Dr. dear ?" asked Susan in genuine 
astonishment. 

"What about Milton and Shakespeare? And the 
poets of the Bible?" 

"They tell me Milton could not get along with his 
wife, and Shakespeare was no more than respectable 
by times. As for the Bible, of course things were 
different in those sacred days — although I never had 
a high opinion of King David, say what you will. I 
never knew any good to come of writing poetry, and 
I hope and pray that blessed boy will outgrow the tend- 
ency. If he does not — we must see what emulsion of 
cod-liver oil will do." 


CHAPTER VIII 


Miss Cornelia Intervenes 

M ISS CORNELIA descended upon the manse 
the next day and cross-questioned Mary, who, 
being a young person of considerable discernment and 
astuteness, told her story simply and truthfully, with 
an entire absence of complaint or bravado. Miss 
Cornelia was more favourably impressed than she had 
expected to be, but deemed it her duty to be severe. 

‘^Do you think,” she said sternly, ^^that you showed 
your gratitude to this family, who have been far too 
kind to you, by insulting and chasing one of their little 
friends as you did yesterday?” 

“Say, it was rotten mean of me,” admitted Mary 
easily. “I dunno what possessed me. That old codfish 
seemed to come in so blamed handy. But I was awful 
sorry — I cried last night after I went to bed about it, 
honest I did. You ask Una if I didn^t. I wouldn’t 
tell her what for ’cause I was ashamed of it, and then 
she cried, too, because she was afraid some one had 
hurt my feelings. Laws, I ain’t got any feelings to 
hurt worth speaking of. What worries me is why 
Mrs. Wiley hain’t been hunting for me. It ain’t like 
her.” 

Miss Cornelia herself thought it rather peculiar, but 
78 


MISS CORNELIA INTERVENES 79 

she merely admonished Mary sharply not to take any 
further liberties with the minister’s codfish, and went 
to report progress at Ingleside. 

‘'If the child’s story is true the matter ought to be 
looked into,” she said. “I know something about that 
Wiley woman, believe me. Marshall used to be well 
acquainted with her when he lived over-harbour. I 
heard him say something last summer about her and 
a home child she had — likely this very Mary-creature. 
He said some one told him she was working the child 
to death and not half feeding and clothing it. You 
know, Anne dearie, it has always been my habit neither 
to make nor meddle with those over-harbour folks. 
But I shall send Marshall over to-morrow to find out 
the rights of this if he can. And then I’ll speak to the 
minister. Mind you, Anne dearie, the Merediths found 
this girl literally starving in James Taylor’s old hay 
barn. She had been there all night, cold and hungry 
and alone. And us sleeping warm in our beds after 
good suppers.” 

“The poor little thing,” said Anne, picturing one of 
her own dear babies, cold and hungry and alone in such 
circumstances. “If she has been ill-used. Miss Cor- 
nelia, she mustn’t be taken back to such a place. I was 
an orphan once in a very similar situation.” 

“We’ll have to consult the Hopetown asylum folks,” 
said Miss Cornelia. “Anyway, she can’t be left at the 
manse. Dear knows what those poor children might 
learn from her. I understand that she has been known 


8o 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


to swear. But just think of her being there two whole 
weeks and Mr. Meredith never waking up to it ! What 
business has a man like that to have a family ? Why, 
Anne dearie, he ought to be a monk.” 

Two evenings later Miss Cornelia was back at Ingle- 
side. 

‘Tt’s the most amazing thing!” she said. “Mrs. 
Wiley was found dead in her bed the very morning 
after this Mary-creature ran away. She has had a 
bad heart for years and the doctor had warned her it 
might happen at any time. She had sent away her 
hired man and there was nobody in the house. Some 
neighbours found her the next day. They missed the 
child, it seems, but supposed Mrs. Wiley had sent her 
to her cousin near Charlottetown as she had said she 
was going to do. The cousin didn’t come to the funeral 
and so nobody ever knew that Mary wasn’t with her. 
The people Marshall talked to told him some things 
about the way Mrs. Wiley used this Mary that made 
his blood boil, so he declares. You know, it puts 
Marshall in a regular fury to hear of a child being ill- 
used. They said she whipped her mercilessly for ever^ 
little fault or mistake. Some folks talked of writing 
to the asylum authorities but everybody’s business is 
nobody’s business and it was never done.” 

“I am very sorry that Wiley person is dead,” said 
Susan fiercely. “I should like to go over-harbour and 
give her a piece of my mind. Starving and beating 
a child, Mrs. Dr. dear! As you know, I hold with 


MISS CORNELIA INTERVENES 8i 

lawful spanking, but I go no further. And what is 
to become of this poor child now, Mrs. Marshall 
Elliott?’’ 

‘‘I suppose she must be sent back to Hopetown,” 
said Miss Cornelia. ^*I think every one hereabouts 
who wants a home child has one. I’ll see Mr. Meredith 
to-morrow and tell him my opinion of the whole 
affair.” . 

“And no doubt she will, Mrs. Dr. dear,” said Susan, 
after Miss Cornelia had gone. “She would stick at 
nothing, not even at shingling the church spire if she 
took it into her head. But I cannot understand how 
even 'Cornelia Bryant can talk to a minister as she does. 
You would think he was just any common person.” 

When Miss Cornelia had gone. Nan Blythe uncurled 
herself from the hammock where she had been study- 
ing her lessons and slipped away to Rainbow Valley. 
The others were already there. Jem and Jerry were 
playing quoits with old horseshoes borrowed from the 
Glen blacksmith. Carl was stalking ants on a sunny 
hillock. Walter, lying on his stomach among the fern, 
was reading aloud to Mary and Di and Faith and Una 
from a wonderful book of myths wherein were fasci- 
nating accounts of Prester John and the Wandering 
Jew, divining rods and tailed men, of Schamir, the 
worm that split rocks and opened the way to golden 
treasure, of Fortunate Isles and swan-maidens. It 
was a great shock to Walter to learn that William Tell 
and Gelert were myths also; and the story of Bishop 


82 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


Hatto was to keep him awake all that night; but best 
of all he loved the stories of the Pied Piper and the 
San Greal. He read them thrillingly, while the bells 
on the Tree Lovers tinkled in the summer wind and 
the coolness of the evening shadows crept across the 
valley. 

‘*Say, ain’t them investing lies?” said Mary admir- 
ingly when Walter had closed the book. ♦ 

‘They aren’t lies,” said Di indignantly. 

“You don’t mean they’re true?” asked Mary in- 
credulously. 

“No — not exactly. They’re like those ghost-stories 
of yours. They weren’t true — ^but you didn’t expect 
us to believe them, so they weren’t lies.” 

“That yarn about the divining rod is no lie, any- 
how,” said Mary. “Old Jake Crawford over-harbour 
can work it. They send for him from everywhere 
when they want to dig a well. And I believe I know 
the Wandering Jew.” 

“Oh, Mary,” said Una, awe-struck. 

“I do — true’s you’re alive. There was an old man 
at Mrs. Wiley’s one day last fall. He looked old 
enough to be anything. She was asking him about 
cedar posts, if he thought they’d last well. And he 
said, ‘Last well? They’ll last a thousand years. I 
know, for I’ve tried them twice.’ Now, if he was two 
thousand years old who was he but your Wandering 
Jew?”* 


MISS CORNELIA INTERVENES 83 

don’t believe the Wandering Jew would associate 
with a person like Mrs. Wiley,” said Faith decidedly. 

‘‘I love the Pied Piper story,” said Di, ‘‘and so does 
mother. I always feel so sorry for the poor little lame 
boy who couldn’t keep up with the others and got shut 
out of the mountain. He must have been so disap- 
pointed. I think all the rest of his life he’d be wonder- 
ing what wonderful thing he had missed and wishing 
he could have got in with the others.” 

“But how glad his mother must have been,” said 
Una softly. “I think she had been sorry all her life 
that he was lame. Perhaps she even used to cry about 
it. But she would never be sorry again — never. She 
would be glad he was lame because that was why she 
hadn’t lost him.” 

“Some day,” said Walter dreamily, looking afar 
into the sky, “the Pied Piper will come over the hill 
up there and down Rainbow Valley, piping merrily 
and sweetly. And I will follow him — follow him down 
to the shore — down to the sea — away from you all. I 
don’t think I’ll want to go. Jem will want to go — ‘it 
will be such an adventure — but I won’t. Only I’ll have 
to — the music will call and call and call me until I 
must follow.” 

“We’ll all go,” cried Di, catching fire at the flame 
of Walter’s fancy, and half-believing she could see 
the mocking, retreating figure of the mystic piper in 
the far, dim end of the valley. 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


84 

‘‘No. You’ll sit here and wait,” said Walter, his 
great, splendid eyes full of strange glamour. ‘You’ll 
wait for us to come back. And we may not come — 
for we cannot come as long as the Piper plays. Ho 
may pipe us round the world. And still you’ll sit here 
and wait — and wait.” 

“Oh, dry up,” said Mary, shivering. “Don’t look 
like that, Walter Blythe. You give me the creeps. 
Do you want to set me bawling? I could just see that 
horrid old Piper going away on, and you boys follow- 
ing him, and us girls sitting here waiting all alone. I 
dunno why it is — I never was one of the blubbering 
kind — but as soon as you start your spieling I always 
want to cry.” 

Walter smiled in triumph. He liked to exercise this 
power of his over his companions — ^to play on their 
feelings, waken their fears, thrill their souls. It satis- 
fied some dramatic instinct in him. But under his 
triumph was a queer little chill of some mysterious 
dread. The Pied Piper had seemed very real to him — 
as if the fluttering veil that hid the future had for a 
moment been blown aside in the starlit dusk of Rain- 
bow Valley and some dim glimpse of coming years 
granted to him. 

Carl, coming up to their group with a report of the 
doings in ant-land, brought them all back to the realm 
of facts. 

“Ants are darned in’resting,” exclaimed Mary, glad 
to escape the shadowy Piper’s thrall. “Carl and me 


MISS CORNELIA INTERVENES 85 

watched that bed in the graveyard all Saturday after- 
noon. I never thought there was so much in bugs. 
Say, but they’re quarrelsome little cusses — some of 
’em like to start a fight ’thout any reason, far’s we 
could see. And some of ’em are cowards. They got 
so scared they just doubled theirselves up into a ball 
and let the other fellows bang ’em round. They 
wouldn’t put up a fight at all. Some of ’em are lazy 
and won’t work. We watched ’em shirking. And 
there was one ant died of grief ’cause another ant got 
killed — wouldn’t work — wouldn’t eat — ^just died — it 
did, honest to Go — oodness.” 

A shocked silence prevailed. Every one knew that 
Mary had not started out to say ‘‘goodness.” Faith 
and Di exchanged glances that would have done credit 
to Miss Cornelia herself. Walter and Carl looked 
uncomfortable, and Una’s lip trembled. 

Mary squirmed uncomfortably. 

“That slipped out ’fore I thought — it did, honest to 
— I mean, true’s you live, and I swallowed half of it. 
You folks over here are mighty squeamish seems to 
me. Wish you could have heard the Wileys when 
they had a fight.” 

“Ladies don’t say such things,” said Faith, very 
primly for her. 

“It isn’t right,” whispered Una. 

“I ain’t a lady,” said Mary. “What chance’ve I 
•ever had of being a lady? But I won’t say that again 
if I can help it. I promise you.” 


86 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


‘'Besides/* said Una, “you can’t expect God to 
answer your prayers if you take His name in vain, 
Mary.” 

“I don’t expect Him to answer ’em anyhow,” said 
Mary of little faith. “I’ve been asking Him for a 
week to clear up this Wiley affair and He hasn’t done 
a thing. I’m going to give up.” 

At this juncture Nan arrived breathless. 

“Oh, Mary, I’ve news for you. Mrs. Elliott has 
been over-harbour and what do you think she found 
out ? Mrs. Wiley is dead — she was found dead in bed 
the morning after you ran away. So you’ll never have 
to go back to her.” 

“Dead !” said Mary stupefied. Then she shivered. 

“Do you s’pose my praying had anything to do with 
that?” she cried imploringly to Una. “If it had I’ll 
never pray again as long as I live. Why, she may 
come back and ha’nt me.” 

“No, no, Mary,” said Una comfortingly, “it hadn’t 
Why, Mrs. Wiley died long before you ever began ' 
pray about it at all.” 

“That’s so,” said Mary recovering from her panic. 
“But I tell you it gave me a start. I wouldn’t like to 
think I’d prayed anybody to death. I never thought 
of such a thing as her dying when I was prayi^ She 
didn’t seem much like the dying kind. Did Mrs. Elliott 
say anything about me?” 

“She said you would likely have to go back to the 
asylum.” 


MISS CORNELIA INTERVENES 87 

‘T thought as much,” said Mary drearily. ‘'And 
then they'll give me out again — likely to some one just 
like Mrs. Wiley. Well, I s'pose I can stand it. I'm 
tough.” 

“Fm going to pray that you won't have to go back,” 
whispered Una, as she and Mary walked home to the 
manse. 

“You can do as you like,” said Mary decidedly, “but 
I vow I won't. I'm good and scared of this praying 
business. See what's came of it. If Mrs. Wiley had 
died after I started praying it would have been my 
doings.” 

“Oh, no, it wouldn't,” said Una. “I wish I could 
explain things better — father could, I know, if you'd 
talk to him, Mary.” 

“Catch me! I don't know what to make of your 
father, that's the long and short of it. He goes by 
me and never sees me in broad daylight. I ain't proud 
— but I ain't a door mat, neither!” 

“Oh, Mary, it's just father's way. Most of the 
time he never sees us, either. He is thinking deeply, 
that is all. And I am going to pray that God will keep 
you in Four Winds — because I like you, Mary.” 

“All right. Only don't let me hear of any more 
people dying on account of it,” said Mary. “I'd like 
to stay in Four Winds fine. I like it and I like the 
harbour and the light house — and you and the Blythes. 
You're the only friends I ever had and I'd hate to leave 
you." 


CHAPTER IX 
Una Intervenes 

M ISS CORNELIA had an interview with Mr. 

Meredith which proved something of a shock 
to that abstracted gentleman. She pointed out to him, 
none too respectfully, his dereliction of duty in allow- 
ing a waif like Mary Vance to come into his family and 
associate with his children without knowing or learn- 
ing anything about her. 

‘T don’t say there is much harm done, of course,” 
she concluded. ‘This Mary-creature isn’t what you 
might call bad, when all is said and done. I’ve been 
questioning your children and the Blythes, and from 
what I can make out there’s nothing much to be said 
against the child except that she’s slangy and doesn’t 
use very refined language. But think what might have 
happened if she’d been like some of those home chil- 
dren we know of. You know yourself what that poor 
little creature the Jim Flaggs’ had, taught and told the 
Flagg children.” 

Mr. Meredith did know and was honestly shocked 
over his own carelessness in the matter. 

“But what is to be done, Mrs. Elliott?” he asked 
helplessly. “We can’t turn the poor child out. She 
must be cared for.” 

“Of course. We’d better write to the Hopetown 
88 


UNA INTERVENES 


89 

authorities at once. Meanwhile, I suppose she might 
as well stay here for a few more days till we hear from 
them. But keep your eyes and ears open, Mr. 
Meredith.^^ 

Susan would have died of horror on the spot if sha 
had heard Miss Cornelia so admonishing a minister. 
But Miss Cornelia departed in a warm glow of satis- 
faction over duty done, and that night Mr. Meredith 
asked Mary to come into his study with him. Mary 
obeyed, looking literally ghastly with fright. But she 
got the surprise of her poor, battered little life. This 
man, of whom she had stood so terribly in awe, was 
the kindest, gentlest soul she had ever met. Before 
she knew what happened Mary found herself pouring 
all her troubles into his ear and receiving in return 
such sympathy and tender understanding as it had 
never occurred to her to imagine. Mary left the study 
with her face and eyes so softened that Una hardly 
knew her. 

“Your father’s all right, when he does wake up,” 
she said with a sniff that just escaped being a sob. 
“It’s a pity he doesn’t wake up oftener. He said I 
wasn’t to blame for Mrs. Wiley dying, but that I must 
try to think of her good points and not of her bad ones. 
I dunno what good points she had, unless it was keep- 
ing her house clean and making first class butter. I 
know I ’most wore my arms out scrubbing her old 
kitchen floor with the knots in it. But anything your 
father says goes with me after this.” 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


90 

Mary proved a rather dull companion in the follow- 
ing days, however. She confided to Una that the more 
she thought of going back to the asylum the more she 
hated it. Una racked her small brains for some way 
of averting it, but it was Nan Blythe who came to the 
rescue with a somewhat startling suggestion. 

“Mrs. Elliott might take Mary herself. She has a 
great big house and Mr. Elliott is always wanting her 
to have help. It would be just a splendid place for 
Mary. Only she’d have to behave herself.” 

“Oh, Nan, do you think Mrs. Elliott would take 
her?” 

“It wouldn’t do any harm if you asked her,” said 
Nan. 

At first Una did not think she could. She was so 
shy that to ask a favour of anybody was agony to her. 
And she was very much in awe of the bustling, ener- 
getic Mrs. Elliott. She liked her very much and 
always enjoyed a visit to her house; but to go and ask 
her to adopt Mary Vance seemed such a height of 
presumption that Una’s timid spirit quailed. 

When the Hopetown authorities wrote to Mr. 
Meredith to send Mary to them without delay Mary 
cried herself to sleep in the manse attic that night and 
Una found a desperate courage. The next evening 
she slipped away from the manse to the harbour roaH- 
Far down in Rainbow Valley she heard joyous laugh- 
ter but her way lay not there. She was terribly pale 
and terribly in earnest — so much so that she took no 


UNA INTERVENES 


91 

notice of the people she met — and old Mrs. Stanley 
Flagg was quite huffed and said Una Meredith would 
be as absent-minded as her father when she grew up. 

Miss Cornelia lived half way between the Glen and 
Four Winds Point, in a house whose original glaring 
green hue had mellowed down to an agreeable greenish 
gray. Marshall Elliott had planted trees about it and 
set out a rose garden and a spruce hedge. It was quite 
a different place from what it had been in years agone. 
The manse children and the Ingleside children liked to 
go there. It was a beautiful walk down the old har- 
bour road, and there was always a well-filled cooky 
jar at the end. 

The misty sea was lapping softly far down on the 
sands. Three big boats were skimming down the har- 
bour like great white sea-birds. A schooner was com- 
ing up the channel. The world of Four Winds was 
steeped in glowing colour, and subtle music, and 
strange glamour, and everybody should have been 
happy in it. But when Una turned in at Miss Cor- 
nelia’s gate her very legs had almost refused to carry 
her. 

Miss Cornelia was alone on the veranda. Una had 
hoped Mr. Elliott would be there. He was so big and 
hearty and twinkly that there would be encouragement 
in his presence. She sat on the little stool Miss Cor- 
nelia brought out and tried to eat the doughnut Miss 
Cornelia gave her. It stuck in her throat, but she 
swallowed desperately lest Miss Cornelia be offended. 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


92 

She could not talk; she was still pale; and her big, 
dark-blue eyes looked so piteous that Miss Cornelia 
concluded the child was in some trouble. 

‘‘What’s on your mind, dearie ?” she asked. “There’s 
something, that’s plain to be seen.” 

Una swallowed the last twist of doughnut with a 
desperate gulp. 

“Mrs. Elliott, won’t you take Mary Vance?” she 
said beseechingly. 

Miss Cornelia stared blankly. 

“Me! Take Mary Vance! Do you mean keep 
her?” 

“Yes — keep her — adopt her,” said Una eagerly, 
gaining courage now that the ice was broken. “Oh, 
Mrs. Elliott, please do. She doesn’t want to go back 
to the asylum — she cries every night about it. She’s 
so afraid of being sent to another hard place. And 
she’s so smart — there isn’t anything she can’t do. I 
know you wouldn’t be sorry if you took her.” 

“I never thought of such a thing,” said Miss Cor- 
nelia rather helplessly. 

^Won't you think of it?” implored Una. 

“But, dearie, I don’t want help. I’m quite able to 
do all the work here. And I never thought I’d like 
to have a home girl if I did need help.” 

The light went out of Una’s eyes. Her lips trembl^ed. 
She sat down on her stool again, a pathetic little figi:^re 
of disappointment, and began to cry. , 

“Don’t — dearie — don’t,” exclaimed Miss Cornelia in 


UNA INTERVENES 93 

distress. She could never bear to hurt a child. “I don’t 
say I won't take her — but the idea is so new it has just 
kerflummuxed me. I must think it over.” 

‘'Mary is so smart,” said Una again. 

“Humph ! So I’ve heard. I’ve heard she swears, 
too. Is that true ?” 

“I’ve never heard her swear — exactly," faltered Una 
uncomfortably. “But I’m afraid she could" 

“I believe you ! Does she always tell the truth ?” 

“I think she does, except when she’s afraid of a 
whipping.” 

“And yet you want me to take her ?” 

**Some one has to take her,” sobbed Una. ''Some 
one has to look after her, Mrs. Elliott.” 

“That’s true. Perhaps it is my duty to do it,” said 
Miss Cornelia with a sigh. “Well, I’ll have to talk it 
over with Mr. Elliott. So don’t say anything about it 
just yet. Take another doughnut, dearie.” 

Una took it and ate it with a better appetite. 

“I’m very fond of doughnuts,” she confessed. 
“Aunt Martha never makes any. But Miss Susan at 
Ingleside does, and sometimes she lets us have a plate- 
ful in Rainbow Valley. Do you know what I do when 
I’m hungry for doughnuts and can’t get any, Mrs. 
Elliott?” 

“No, dearie. What?” 

“I get out mother’s old cook book and read the 
doughnut recipe — and the other recipes. They sound 
so nice. I always do that when I’m hungry — especially 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


94 

after weVe had ditto for dinner. Then I read the 
fried chicken and the roast goose recipes. Mother 
could make all those nice things.^* 

“Those manse children will starve to death yet if 
Mr. Meredith doesn^t get married,” Miss Cornelia told 
her husband indignantly after Una had gone. “And 
he won’t — and what’s to be done ? And shall we take 
this Mary-creature, Marshall?” 

“Yes, take her,” said Marshall laconically. 

“Just like a man,” said his wife, despairingly. 
“ Take her’ — as if that was all. There are a hundred 
things to be considered, believe meT 

“Take her — and we’ll consider them afterwards, 
Cornelia,” said her husband. 

In the end Miss Cornelia did take her and went up 
to announce her decision to the Ingleside people 
first. 

“Splendid !” said Anne delightedly. “I’ve been hop- 
ing you would do that very thing. Miss Cornelia. I 
want that poor child to get a good home. I was a 
homeless little orphan just like her once.” 

“I don’t think this Mary-creature is or ever will be 
much like you,” retorted Miss Cornelia gloomily. 
“She’s a cat of another colour. But she’s also a human 
being with an immortal soul to save. I’ve got a shorter 
catechism and a small tooth comb and I’m going to do 
my duty by her, now that I’ve set my han(i to the 
plough, believe me.” 

Mary received the news with chastened satisfaction. 


95 


UNA INTERVENES 

*Tt’s better luck than I expected/’ she said. 

“You’ll have to mind your p’s and q’s with Mrs. 
Elliott,” said Nan. 

“Well, I can do that,” flashed Mary. “I know how 
to behave when I want to just as well as you. Nan 
Blythe.” 

“You mustn’t use bad words, you know, Mary,” said 
Una anxiously. 

“I s’pose she’d die of horror if I did,” grinned Mary, 
her white eyes shining with unholy glee over the idea. 
“But you needn’t worry, Una. Butter won’t melt in 
my mouth after this. I’ll be all prunes and prisms.” 

“Nor tell lies,” added Faith. 

“Not even to get off from a whipping?” pleaded 
Mary. 

“Mrs. Elliott will never whip you — never,** ex- 
claimed Di. 

“Won’t she?” said Mary skeptically. “If I ever find 
myself in a place where I ain’t licked I’ll think it’s 
heaven all right. No fear of me telling lies then. I 
ain’t fond of telling ’em — I’d ruther not, if it comes 
to that.” 

The day before Mary’s departure from the manse 
they had a picnic in her honour in Rainbow Valley, 
and that evening all the manse children gave her some- 
thing from their scanty store of treasured things for 
a keepsake. Carl gave her his Noah’s ark and Jerry 
his second best jews-harp. Faith gave her a little hair 
brush with a mirror in the back of it, which Mary had 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


96 

always considered very wonderful. Una hesitated be- 
tween an old beaded purse and a gay picture of Daniel 
in the lion’s den, and finally offered Mary her choice. 
Mary really hankered after the beaded purse, but ‘?he 
knew Una loved it, so she said, 

“Give me Daniel. I’d ruther have it ’cause I’m 
partial to lions. Only I wish they’d et Daniel up. It 
would have been more exciting.” 

At bedtime Mary coaxed Una to sleep with her. 

“It’s for the last time,” she said, “and it’s raining 
to-night, and I hate sleeping up there alone when it’s 
raining on account of that graveyard. I don’t mind 
it on fine nights, but a night like this I can’t see any- 
thing but the rain pouring down on them old white 
stones, and the wind round the window sounds as if 
them dead people were trying to get in and crying 
’cause they couldn’t.” 

“I like rainy nights,” said Una, when they were 
cuddled down together in the little attic room, “and 
so do the Blythe girls.” 

“I don’t mind ’em when I’m not handy to grave- 
yards,” said Mary. “If I was alone here I’d cry my 
eyes out I’d be so lonesome. I feel awful bad to be 
leaving you all.” 

“Mrs. Elliott will let you come up and play in Rain- 
bow Valley quite often I’m sure,” said Una. “And 
you will be a good girl, won’t you, Mary ?” 

“Oh, I’ll try,” sighed Mary. “But it won’t be as 
easy for me to be good — inside, I mean, as well as out- 


UNA INTERVENES 


97 

side — as it is for you. You hadn’t such scalawags of 
relations as I had.” 

“But your people must have had some good qualities 
as well as bad ones,” argued Una. “You must live up 
to them and never mind their bad ones.” 

“I don’t believe they had any good qualities,” said 
Mary gloomily. “/ never heard of any. My grand- 
father had money, but they say he was a rascal. No, 
I’ll just have to start out on my own hook and do the 
best I can.” 

“And God will help you, you know, Mary, if you ask 
Him.” 

“I don’t know about that.” 

“Oh, Mary. You know we asked God to get a home 
for you and He did.” 

“I don’t see what He had to do with it,” retorted 
Mary. “It was you put it into Mrs. Elliott’s head.” 

“But God put it into her heart to take you. All my 
putting it into her head wouldn’t have done any good 
if He hadn’t.” 

“Well, there may be something in that,” admitted 
Mary. “Mind you, I haven’t got anything against 
God, Una. I’m willing to give Him a chance. But, 
honest, I think He’s an awful lot like your father — 
just absent-minded and never taking any notice of a 
body most of the time, but sometimes waking up all 
of a suddent and being awful good and kind and sensi- 
ble.” 

“Oh, Mary, no!” exclaimed horrified Una. “God 


98 RAINBOW VALLEY 

isn't a bit like father — I mean He's a thousand times 
better and kinder." 

‘‘If He's as good as your father He'll do for me," 
said Mary. ‘'When your father was talking to me I 
felt as if I never could be bad any more." 

“I wish you'd talk to father about Him," sighed 
Una. “He can explain it all so much better than I 
can." 

“Why, so I will, next time he wakes up," promised 
Mary. “That night he talked to me in the study he 
showed me real clear that my praying didn't kill Mrs. 
Wiley. My mind's been easy since, but I'm real cau- 
tious about praying. I guess the old rhyme is the 
safest. Say, Una, it seems to me if one has to pray 
to anybody it'd be better to pray to the devil than to 
God. God's good, anyhow, so you say, so He won't 
do you any harm, but from all I can make out the 
devil needs to be peacified. I think the sensible way 
would be to say to him, ‘Good devil, please don't tempt 
me. Just leave me alone, please.' Now, don't you?" 

“Oh, no, no, Mary. I'm sure it couldn't be right 
to pray to the devil. And it wouldn't do any good 
because he's bad. It might aggravate him and he'd be 
worse than ever." 

“Well, as to this God-matter," said Mary stub- 
bornly, “since you and I can’t settle it, there ain't no 
use in talking more about it until we've a chanct to 
find out the rights of it. I'l do the best I can alone till 
then.” 


UNA INTERVENES 


99 

‘‘If mother was alive she could tell us everything,” 
said Una with a sigh. 

“I wisht she was alive,” said Mary. “I don’t know 
what’s going to become of you youngsters when I’m 
gone. Anyhow, do try and keep the house a little tidy. 
The way people talks about it is scandalous. And first 
thing you know your father will be getting married 
again and then your noses will be out of joint.” 

Una was startled. The idea of her father marrying 
again had never presented itself to her before. She 
did not like it and she lay silent under the chill of it. 

“Stepmothers are awful creatures,” Mary went on. 
“I could make your blood run cold if I was to tell you 
all I know about ’em. The Wilson kids across the 
road from Wileys’ had a stepmother. She was just 
as bad to ’em as Mrs. Wiley was to me. It’ll be awful 
if you get a stepmother.” 

“Fm sure we won’t,” said Una tremulously. “Father 
won’t marry anybody else.” 

“He’ll be hounded into it, I expect,” said Mary 
darkly. “All the old maids in the settlement are after 
him. There’s no being up to them. And the worst of 
stepmothers is, they always set your father against 
you. He’d never care anything about you again. He’d 
always take her part and her children’s part. You see, 
she’d make him believe you were all bad.” 

“I wish you hadn’t told me this, Mary,” cried Una. 
“It makes me feel so unhappy.” 

“I only wanted to warn you,” said Mary, rather 


lOO 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


repentantly. ‘‘Of course, your father’s so absent- 
minded he mightn’t happen to think of getting married 
again. But it’s better to be prepared.” 

Long after Mary slept serenely little Una lay awake, 
her eyes smarting with tears. Oh, how dreadful it 
would be if her father should marry somebody who 
would make him hate her and Jerry and Faith and 
Carl ! She couldn’t bear it — she couldn’t ! 

Mary had not instilled any poison of the kind Miss 
Cornelia had feared into the manse children’s minds. 
Yet she had certainly contrived to do a little mischief 
with the best of intentions. But she slept dreamlessly, 
while Una lay awake and the rain fell and the wind 
wailed around the old gray manse. And the Rev. 
John Meredith forgot to go to bed at all because he 
was absorbed in reading a life of St. Augustine. It 
was gray dawn when he finished it and went upstairs, 
wrestling with the problems of two thousand years 
ago. The door of the girls’ room was open and he 
saw Faith lying asleep, rosy and beautiful. He won- 
dered where Una was. Perhaps she had gone over to 
“stay all night” with the Blythe girls. She did this 
occasionally, deeming it a great treat. John Meredith 
sighed. He felt that Una’s whereabouts ought not to 
be a mystery to him. Cecilia would have looked after 
her better than that. 

If only Cecilia were still with him! How pretty 
and gay she had been! How the old manse up at 
Maywater had echoed to her songs! And she had 


UNA INTERVENES 


lOl 


gone away so suddenly, taking her laughter and music 
and leaving silence — so suddenly that he had never 
quite got over his feeling of amazement. How could 
she, the beautiful and vivid, have died? 

The idea of a second marriage had never presented 
itself seriously to John Meredith. He had loved his 
wife so deeply that he believed he could never care for 
any woman again. He had a vague idea that before 
very long Faith would be old enough to take her 
mother's place. Until then, he must do the best he 
could alone. He sighed and went to his room, where 
the bed was still unmade. Aunt Martha had forgotten 
it, and Mary had not dared to make it because Aunt 
Martha had forbidden her to meddle with anything in 
the minister’s room. But Mr. Meredith did not notice 
that it was unmade. His last thoughts were of St. 
Augustine. 


CHAPTER X 

The Manse Girls Clean House 
GH,” said Faith, sitting up in bed with a shiver. 



“It’s raining. I do hate a rainy Sunday. Sun- 
day is dull enough even when it’s fine.” 

“We oughtn’t to find Sunday dull,” said Una 
sleepily, trying to pull her drowsy wits together with 
an uneasy conviction that they had overslept. 

“But We do, you know,” said Faith candidly. “Mary 
Vance says most Sundays are so dull she could hang 
herself.” 

“We ought to like Sunday better than Mary Vance,” 
said Una remorsefully. “We’re the minister’s chil- 
dren.” 

“I wish we were a blacksmith’s children,” protested 
Faith angrily, hunting for her stockings. ''Then people 
wouldn’t expect us to be better than other children. 
Just look at the holes in my heels. Mary darned them 
all up before she went away, but they’re as bad as ever 
now. Una, get up. I can’t get the breakfast alone. 
Oh, dear. I wish father and Jerry were home. You 
wouldn’t think we’d miss father much — we don’t see 
much of him when he is home. And yet everything 
seems gone. I must run in and see how Aunt Martha 


IS. 


102 


THE GIRLS CLEAN HOUSE 103 

'‘Is she any better?” asked Una, when Faith re- 
turned. 

"No, she isn’t. She’s groaning with the misery still. 
Maybe we ought to tell Dr. Blythe. But she says not — 
she never had a doctor in her life and she isn’t going 
to begin now. She says doctors just live by poisoning 
people. Do you suppose they do?” 

"No, of course not,” said Una indignantly. "I’m 
sure Dr. Blythe wouldn’t poison anybody.” 

"Well, we’ll have to rub Aunt Martha’s back again 
after breakfast. We’d better not make the flannels 
as hot as we did yesterday.” 

Faith giggled over the remembrance. They had 
nearly scalded the skin off poor Aunt Martha’s back. 
Una sighed. Mary Vance would have known just 
what the precise temperature of flannels for a misery 
back should be. Mary knew everything. They knew 
nothing. And how could they learn, save by bitter 
experience for which, in this instance, unfortunate 
Aunt Martha had paid? 

The preceding Monday Mr. Meredith had left for 
Nova Scotia to spend his short vacation, taking Jerry 
with him. On Wednesday Aunt Martha was suddenly 
seized with a recurring and mysterious ailment which 
she always called "the misery,” and which was toler- 
ably certain to attack her at the most inconvenient 
times. She could not rise from her bed, any movement 
causing agony. A doctor she flatly refused to have. 
Faith and Una cooked the meals and waited on her. 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


104 

The less said about the meals the better — yet they were 
not much worse than Aunt Martha’s had been. There 
were many women in the village who would have been 
glad to come and help, but Aunt Martha refused to let 
her plight be known. 

‘You must worry on till I kin git around,” she 
groaned. “Thank goodness, John isn’t here. There’s 
a plenty o’ cold biled meat and bread and you kin try 
your hand at making porridge.” 

The girls had tried their hand, but so far without 
much success. The first day it had been too thin. 
The next day so thick that you could cut it in slices. 
And both days it had been burned. 

“I hate porridge,” said Faith viciously. “When 
I have a house of my own I’m never going to have 
a single bit of porridge in it.” 

“What’ll your children do then?” asked Una. 
“Children have to have porridge or they won’t grow. 
Everybody says so.” 

“They’ll have to get along without it or stay runts,” 
retorted Faith stubbornly. “Here, Una, you stir it 
while I set the table. If I leave it for a minute the 
horrid stuff will burn. It’s half past nine. We’ll be 
late for Sunday School.” 

“I haven’t seen any one going past yet,” said Una. 
“There won’t likely be many out. Just see how it’s 
pouring. And when there’s no preaching the folks 
won’t come from a distance to bring the children.” 

“Go and call Carl,” said Faith. 


THE GIRLS CLEAN HOUSE 105 

Carl, it appeared, had a sore throat, induced by get- 
ting wet in the Rainbow Valley marsh the previous 
evening while pursuing dragon-flies. He had come 
home with dripping stockings and boots and had sat 
out the evening in them. He could not eat any break- 
fast and Faith made him go back to bed again. She 
and Una left the table as it was and went to Sunday 
School. There was no one in the school room when 
they got there and no one came. They waited until 
eleven and then went home. 

“There doesn’t seem to be anybody at the Methodist 
Sunday School either,” said Una. 

“Fm glad” said Faith. “Fd hate to think the Meth- 
odists were better at going to Sunday School on rainy 
Sundays than the Presbyterians. But there’s no 
preaching in their Church to-day, either, so likely their 
Sunday School is in the afternoon.” 

Una washed the dishes, doing them quite nicely, for 
so much had she learned from Mary Vance. Faith 
swept the floor after a fashion and peeled the potatoes 
for dinner, cutting her finger in the process. 

“I wish we had something for dinner besides ditto,” 
sighed Una. “Fm so tired of it. The Blythe children 
don’t know what ditto is. And we never have any 
pudding. Nan says Susan would faint if they had na 
pudding on Sundays. Why aren’t we like other people. 
Faith?” 

“I don’t want to be like other people,” laughed Faith, 
tying up her bleeding finger. “I like being myself. 


io6 RAINBOW VALLEY 

It’s more interesting. Jessie Drew is as good a house- 
keeper as her mother, but would you want to be as 
stupid as she is?” 

‘‘But our house isn’t right. Mary Vance says so. 
She says people talk about it being so untidy.” 

Faith had an inspiration. 

“We’ll clean it all up,” she cried. “We’ll go right 
to work to-morrow. It’s a real good chance when 
Aunt Martha is laid up and can’t interfere with us. 
We’ll have it all lovely and clean when father comes 
home, just like it was when Mary went away. Any 
one can sweep and dust and wash windows. People 
won’t be able to talk about us any more. Jem Blythe 
says it’s only old cats that talk, but their talk hurts 
just as much as anybody’s.” 

“I hope it will be fine to-morrow,” said Una, fired 
with enthusiasm. “Oh, Faith, it will be splendid to be 
all cleaned up and like other people.” 

“I hope Aunt Martha’s misery will last over to-mor- 
row,” said Faith. “If it doesn’t we won’t get a single 
thing done.” 

Faith’s amiable wish was fulfilled. The next day 
found Aunt Martha still unable to rise. Carl, too, was 
still sick and easily prevailed on to stay in bed. 
Neither Faith nor Una had any idea how sick the boy 
really was ; a watchful mother would have had a doctor 
without delay ; but there was no mother, and poor little 
Carl, with his sore throat and aching head and crimson 
cheeks, rolled himself up in his twisted bedclothes and 


THE GIRLS CLEAN HOUSE 


107 

suffered alone, somewhat comforted by the companion- 
ship of a small green lizard in the pocket of his ragged 
nighty. 

The world was full of summer sunshine after the 
rain. It was a peerless day for housecleaning and 
Faith and Una went gaily to work. 

“We’ll clean the dining room and the parlor,” said 
Faith. “It wouldn’t do to meddle with the study, and 
it doesn’t matter much about the upstairs. The first 
thing is to take everything out.” 

Accordingly, everything was taken out. The furni- 
ture was piled on the veranda and lawn and the Meth- 
odist graveyard fence was gaily draped with rugs. An 
orgy of sweeping followed, with an attempt at dusting 
on Una’s part, while Faith washed the windows of the 
dining room, breaking one pane and cracking two in 
the process. Una surveyed the streaked result dubi- 
ously. 

“They don’t look right, somehow,” she said. “Mrs. 
Elliott’s and Susan’s windows just shine and sparkle.” 

“Never mind. They let the sunshine through just 
as well,” said Faith cheerfully. “They must be clean 
after all the soap and water I’ve used, and that’s the 
main thing. Now, it’s past eleven, so I’ll wipe up this 
mess on the floor and we’ll go outside. You dust the 
furniture and I’ll shake the rugs. I’m going to do it 
in the graveyard. I don’t want to send dust flying all 
over the lawn.” 

Faith enjoyed the rug shaking. To stand on Heze- 


io8 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


kiah Pollock^s tombstone, flapping and shaking rugs, 
was real fun. To be sure. Elder Abraham Clow and 
his wife, driving past in their capacious double-seated 
buggy, seemed to gaze at her in grim disapproval. 

‘Tsn’t that a terrible sight?” said Elder Abraham 
solemnly. 

‘T would never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it 
with my own eyes,” said Mrs. Elder Abraham, more 
solemnly still. 

Faith waved a door mat cheerily at the Clow party. 
It did not worry her that the elder and his wife did 
not return her greeting. Everybody knew that Elder 
Abraham had never been known to smile since he had 
been appointed Superintendent of the Sunday School 
fourteen years previously. But it hurt her that Minnie 
and Adella Clow did not wave back. Faith liked 
Minnie and Adella. Next to the Blythes, they were 
her best friends in school and she always helped Adella 
with her sums. This was gratitude for you. Her 
friends cut her because she was shaking rugs in an old 
graveyard where, as Mary Vance said, not a living 
soul had been buried for years. Faith flounced around 
to the veranda, where she found Una grieved in 
spirit because the Clow girls had not waved to her, 
either. 

‘T suppose they’re mad over something,” said Faith. 
‘Terhaps they’re jealous because we play so much in 
Rainbow Valley with the Blythes. Well, just wait till 
school opens and Adella wants me to show her how to 


THE GIRLS CLEAN HOUSE 


109 

do her sums ! We’ll get square then. Come on, let’s 
put the things back in. I’m tired to death and I don’t 
believe the rooms will look much better than before we 
started — though I shook out pecks of dust in the 
graveyard. I hate house-cleaning.” 

It was two o’clock before the tired girls finished the 
two rooms. They got a dreary bite in the kitchen and 
intended to wash the dishes at once. But Faith hap- 
pened to pick up a new story book Di Blythe had lent 
her and was lost to the world until sunset. Una took 
a cup of rank tea up to Carl but found him asleep ; so 
she curled herself up on Jerry’s bed and went to sleep 
too. Meanwhile, a weird story flew through Glen St. 
Mary and folks asked each other seriously what was 
to be done with those manse youngsters. 

“This is past laughing at, believe said Miss 

Cornelia to her husband, with a heavy sigh. “I couldn’t 
believe it at first. Miranda Drew brought the story 
home from the Methodist Sunday School this after- 
noon and I simply scoffed at it. But Mrs. Elder Abra- 
ham says she and the Elder saw it with their own 
eyes.” 

“Saw what?” asked Marshall. 

“Faith and Una Meredith stayed home from Sunday 
School this morning and cleaned house , said Miss 
Cornelia, in accents of despair. “When Elder Abraham 
went home from the church — he had stayed behind 
to straighten out the library books — he saw them shak- 
ing rugs in the Methodist graveyard. I can never look 


no 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


a Methodist in the face again. Just think what a 
scandal it will make 

A scandal it assuredly did make, growing more 
scandalous as it spread, until the over-harbour people 
heard that the manse children had not only cleaned 
house and put out a washing on Sunday, but had 
wound up with an afternoon picnic in the graveyard 
while the Methodist Sunday School was going on. The 
only household which remained in blissful ignorance 
of the terrible thing was the manse itself; on what 
Faith and Una fondly believed to be Tuesday it rained 
again ; for the next three days it rained ; nobody came 
near the manse; the manse folk went nowhere; they 
might have waded through the misty Rainbow Valley 
up to Ingleside, but all the Blythe family, save Susan 
and the doctor, were away on a visit to Avonlea. 

“This is the last of our bread,” said Faith, “and the 
ditto is done. If Aunt Martha doesn’t get better soon 
what will we do?” 

“We can buy some bread in the village and there’s 
the codfish Mary dried,” said Una. “But we don’t 
know how to cook it.” 

“Oh, that’s easy,” laughed Faith. “You just boil it.” 

Boil it they did; but as it did not occur to them to 
soak it beforehand it was too salt to eat. That night 
they were very hungry ; but by the following day their 
troubles were over. Sunshine returned to the world; 
Carl was well and Aunt Martha’s misery left her as 
suddenly as it had come; the butcher called at the 


THE GIRLS CLEAN HOUSE in 


manse and chased famine away. To crown all, the 
Blythes returned home, and that evening they and 
the manse children and Mary Vance kept sunset tryst 
once more in Rainbow Valley, where the daisies were 
floating upon the grass like spirits of the dew and the 
bells on the Tree Lovers rang like fairy chimes in the 
scented twilight. 


CHAPTER XI 


A Dreadful Discovery 

''"f T TELL, you kids have gone and done it riow/^ 

V V was Mary’s greeting, as she joined them in 
the Valley. Miss Cornelia was up at Ingleside, hold- 
ing agonized conclave with Anne and Susan, and Mary 
hoped that the session might be a long one, for it was 
all of two weeks since she had been allowed to revel 
with her chums in the dear valley of rainbows. 

“Done what?” demanded everybody but Walter, 
who was day-dreaming as usual. 

“It’s you manse young ones, I mean,” said Mary. 
“It was just awful of you. I wouldn’t have done such 
a thing for the world, and I weren’t brought up in a 
manse, — weren’t brought up anywhere — just come up.” 

“What have we done?” asked Faith blankly. 

“Done! You’d better ask! The talk is something 
terrible. I expect it’s ruined your father in this con- 
gregation. He’ll never be able to live it down, poor 
man! Everybody blames him for it, and that isn’t 
fair. But nothing is fair in this world. You ought to 
be ashamed of yourselves.” 

“What have we done?” asked Una again, despair- 
ingly. Faith said nothing, but her eyes flashed golden- 
brown scorn at Mary. 


A DREADFUL DISCOVERY 113 

“Oh, don’t pretend innocence,” said Mary, wither- 
ingly. “Everybody knows what you’ve done.” 

“/ don’t,” interjected Jem Blythe indignantly. 
“Don’t let me catch you making Una cry, Mary Vance. 
What are you talking about?” 

“I s’pose you don’t know, since you’re just back 
from up west,” said Mary, somewhat subdued. Jem 
could always manage her. “But everybody else knows, 
you’d better believe.” 

“Knows what?” 

“That Faith and Una stayed home from Sunday 
School last Sunday and cleaned house/* 

“We didn’t,” cried Faith and Una, in passionate 
denial. 

Mary looked haughtily at them. 

“I didn’t suppose you’d deny it, after the way you’ve 
combed me down for lying,” she said. “What’s the 
good of saying you didn’t? Everybody knows you 
did. Elder Clow and his wife saw you. Some people 
say it will break up the church, but I don’t go that far. 
You are nice ones.” 

Nan Blythe stood up and put her arms around the 
dazed Faith and Una. 

“They were nice enough to take you in and feed 
you and clothe you when you were starving in Mr. 
Taylor’s barn, Mary Vance,” she said. “You are very 
grateful, I must say.” 

“1 am grateful,” retorted Mary. “You’d know it 
if you’d heard me standing up for Mr. Meredith 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


114 

through thick and thin. Fve blistered my tongue talk- 
ing for him this week. Fve said again and again that 
he isn’t to blame if his young ones did clean house on 
Sundc^y. He was away — and they knew better.” 

‘‘But we didn’t,” protested Una. “It was Monday 
we cleaned house. Wasn’t it, Faith ?” 

“Of course it was,” said Faith, with flashing eyes. 
“We went to Sunday School in spite of the rain — and 
no one came — not even Elder Abraham, for all his 
talk about fair-weather Christians.” 

“It was Saturday it rained,” said Mary. “Sunday 
w'as fine as silk. I wasn’t at Sunday School because 
I had toothache, but every one else was and they saw 
all your stuff out on the lawn. And Elder Abraham 
and Mrs. Elder Abraham saw you shaking rugs in the, 
graveyard.” 

Una sat down among the daisies and began to cry. 

“Look here,” said Jem resolutely, “this thing must 
be cleared up. Somebody has made a mistake. Sun- 
day was fine. Faith. How could you have thought 
Saturday was Sunday?” 

“Prayer meeting was Thursday night,” cried Faith, 
“and Adam flew into the soup-pot on Friday when 
Aunt Martha’s cat chased him, and spoiled our dinner ; 
and Saturday there was a snake in the cellar and Carl 
caught it with a forked stick and carried it out, and 
Sunday it rained. So there!” 

“Prayer meeting was Wednesday night,” said Mary. 
“Elder Baxter was to lead and he couldn’t go Thurs- 


A DREADFUL DISCOVERY 115 

day night and it was changed to Wednesday. You 
were just a day out, Faith Meredith, and you did work 
on Sunday.” 

Suddenly Faith burst into a peal of laughter. 

“I suppose we did. What a joke!” 

“It isn’t much of a joke for your father,” said Mary 
sourly. 

“It’ll be all right when people find out it was just a 
mistake,” said Faith carelessly. “We’ll explain.” 

“You can explain till you’re black in the face,” said 
Mary, “but a lie like that’ll travel faster’n further than 
you ever will, /’ve seen more of the world than you 
and / know. Besides, there are plenty of folks won’t 
believe it was a mistake.” 

“They will if I tell them,” said Faith. 

“You can’t tell everybody,” said Mary. “No, I tell 
you you’ve disgraced your father.” 

Una’s evening was spoiled by this dire reflection, but 
Faith refused to be made uncomfortable. Besides, she 
had a plan that would put everything right. So she 
put the past with its mistake behind her and gave her- 
herself over to enjoyment of the present. Jem went 
away to fish and Walter came out of his reverie and 
proceeded to describe the woods of heaven. Mary 
pricked up her ears and listened respectfully. Despite 
her awe of Walter she revelled in his “book talk.” It 
always gave her a delightful sensation. Walter had 
been reading his Coleridge that day, and he pictured 
a heaven where 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


116 

“There were gardens bright with sinuous rills 
Where blossomed many an incense bearing tree, 

And there were forests ancient as the hills 
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery/’ 

‘T didn’t know there was any woods in heaven,” 
said Mary, with a long breath. ‘T thought it was all 
streets — and streets — and streets.” 

“Of course there are woods,” said Nan. “Mother 
can’t live without trees and I can’t, so what would be 
the use of going to heaven if there weren’t any trees?” 

“There are cities, too,” said the young dreamer, 
“splendid cities — coloured just like that sunset, with 
sapphire towers and rainbow domes. They are built 
of gold and diamonds — whole streets of diamonds, 
flashing like the sun. In the squares there are crystal 
fountains kissed by the light, and everywhere the 
asphodel blooms — the flower of heaven.” 

“Fancy!” said Mary. “I saw the main street in 
Charlottetown once and I thought it was real grand, 
but I s’pose it’s nothing to heaven. Well, it all sounds 
gorgeous the way you tell it, but won’t it be kind of 
dull, too?” 

“Oh, I guess we can have some fun when the angels’ 
backs are turned,” said Faith comfortably. 

“Heaven is all fun,” declared Di. 

“The Bible doesn’t say so,” cried Mary, who had 
read so much of the Bible on Sunday afternoons under 
Miss Cornelia’s eye that she now considered herself 
quite an authority on it. 


A DREADFUL DISCOVERY 


117 

“Mother says the Bible language is figurative/’ said 
Nan. 

“Does that mean that it isn’t true?” asked Mary 
hopefully. 

“No — not exactly — ^but I think it means that heaven 
will be just like what you’d like it to be.” 

“I’d like it to be just like Rainbow Valley,” said 
Mary, “with all you kids to gas and play with. Thafs 
good enough for me. Anyhow, we can’t go to heaven 
till we’re dead and maybe not then, so what’s the use 
of worrying? Here’s Jem with a string of trout and 
it’s my turn to fry them.” 

“We ought to know more about heaven than Walter 
does when we’re the minister’s family,” said Una, as 
they walked home that night. 

“We know just as much, but Walter can imagine” 
said Faith. “Mrs. Elliott says he gets it from his 
mother.” 

“I do wish we hadn’t made that mistake about Sun- 
day,” sighed Una. 

“Don’t worry over that. I’ve thought of a great 
plan to explain so that everybody will know,” said 
Faith. “Just wait till to-morrow night.” 


CHAPTER XII 
An Explanation and a Dare 
HE Rev. Dr. Cooper preached in Glen St. Mary 



X the next evening and the Presbyterian Church 
was crowded with people from near and far. The 
Reverend Doctor was reputed to be a very eloquent 
speaker; and, bearing in mind the old dictum that a 
minister should take his best clothes to the city and 
his best sermons to the country, he delivered a very 
scholarly and impressive discourse. But when the 
folks went home that night it was not of Dr. CoopePs 
sermon they talked. They had completely forgotten 
all about it. 

Dr. Cooper had concluded with a fervent appeal, had 
wiped the perspiration from his massive brow, had 
said “Let us pray’' as he was famed for saying it, and 
had duly prayed. There was a slight pause. In Glen 
St. Mary Church the old fashion of taking the collec- 
tion after the sermon instead of before still held — 
mainly because the Methodists had adopted the new 
fashion first, and Miss Cornelia and Elder Clow would 
not hear of following where Methodists had led. 
Charles Baxter and Thomas Douglas, whose duty it 
was to pass the plates, were on the point of rising to 
their feet. The organist had got out the music of her 
anthem and the choir had cleared its throat. Suddenly 


AN EXPLANATION AND A DARE 119 

Faith Meredith rose in the manse pew, walked up to 
the pulpit platform, and faced the amazed audience. 

Miss Cornelia half rose in her seat and then sat 
down again. Her pew was far back and it occurred 
to her that whatever Faith meant to do or say would 
be half done or said before she could reach her. There 
was no use making the exhibition worse than it had 
to be. With an anguished glance at Mrs. Dr. Blythe, 
and another at Deacon Warren of the Methodist 
Church, Miss Cornelia resigned herself to another 
scandal. 

'Tf the child was only dressed decently itself,” she 
groaned in spirit. 

Faith, having spilled ink on her good dress, had 
serenely put on an old one of faded pink print. A 
caticomered rent in the skirt had been darned with 
scarlet tracing cotton and the hem had been let down, 
showing a bright strip of unfaded pink around the 
skirt. But Faith was not thinking of her clothes at 
all. She was feeling suddenly nervous. What had 
seemed easy in imagination was rather hard in reality. 
Confronted by all those staring questioning eyes 
Faith's courage almost failed her. The lights were 
so bright, the silence so awesome. She thought she 
could not speak after all. But she must — her father 
must be cleared of suspicion. Only — the words would 
not come. 

Una's little pearl-pure face gleamed up at her be- 
^echingly from the manse pew. The Blythe children 


120 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


were lost in amazement. Back under the gallery Faith 
saw the sweet graciousness of Miss Rosemary West’s 
smile and the amusement of Miss Ellen’s. But none 
of these helped her. It was Bertie Shakespeare Drew 
who saved the situation. Bertie Shakespeare sat in 
the front seat of the gallery and he made a derisive 
face at Faith. Faith promptly made a dreadful one 
back at him, and, in her anger over being grimaced at 
by Bertie Shakespeare, forgot her stage fright. She 
found her voice and spoke out clearly and bravely. 

‘'I want to explain something,” she said, ‘'and I 
want to do it now because everybody will hear it that 
heard the other. People are saying that Una and I 
stayed home last Sunday and cleaned house instead of 
going to Sunday School. Well, we did — but we didn’t 
mean to. We had got mixed up in the days of the 
week. It was all Elder Baxter’s fault” — sensation in 
the Baxter pew — “because he went and changed the 
prayer meeting to Wednesday night and then we 
thought Thursday was Friday and so on till we thought 
Saturday was Sunday. Carl was laid up sick and so 
was Aunt Martha, so they couldn’t put us right. We 
went to Sunday School in all that rain on Saturday 
and nobody came. And then we thought we’d clean 
house on Monday and stop old cats from talking about 
how dirty the manse was” — general sensation all over 
church — “and we did. I shook the rugs in the Meth- 
odist graveyard because it was such a convenient 
place and not because I meant to be disrespectful to th^ 


AN EXPLANATION AND A DARE 121 

dead. It isn’t the dead folks who have made the fuss 
over this — it’s the living folks. And it isn’t right for 
any of you to blame my father for this, because he 
was away and didn’t know, and anyhow we thought 
it was Monday. He’s just the best father that ever 
lived in the world and we love him with all our hearts.” 

Faith’s bravado ebbed out in a sob. She ran down 
the steps and flashed out of the side door of the church. 
There the friendly starlit, summer night comforted 
her and the ache went out of her eyes and throat. She 
felt very happy. The dreadful explanation was over 
and everybody knew now that her father wasn’t to 
blame and that she and Una were not so wicked as to 
have cleaned house knowingly on Sunday. 

Inside the church people gazed blankly at each other, 
but Thomas Douglas rose and walked up the aisle 
with a set face. His duty was clear; the collection 
must be taken if the skies fell. Taken it was ; the choir 
sang the anthem, with a dismal conviction that it fell 
terribly flat, and Dr. Cooper gave out the concluding 
hymn and pronounced the benediction with consider- 
ably less unction than usual. The Reverend Doctor 
had a sense of humor and Faith’s performance tickled 
him. Besides, John Meredith was well known in 
Presbyterian circles. 

Mr. Meredith returned home the next afternoon, 
but before his coming Faith contrived to scandalize 
Glen St. Mary again. In the reaction from Sunday 
evening’s intensity and strain she was especially full 


122 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


of what Miss Cornelia would have called ‘‘devilment” 
on Monday. This led her to dare Walter Blythe to 
ride through Main Street on a pig, while she rode 
another one. 

The pigs in question were two tall, lank animals, 
supposed to belong to Bertie Shakespeare Drew’s 
father, which had been haunting the roadside by the 
manse for a couple of weeks. Walter did not want to 
ride a pig through Glen St. Mary, but whatever Faith 
Meredith dared him to do must be done. They tore 
down the hill and through the village. Faith bent 
double with laughter over her terrified courser, Walter 
crimson with shame. They tore past the minister him- 
self, just coming home from the station; he, being a 
little less dreamy and abstracted than usual — owing 
to having had a talk on the train with Miss Cornelia 
who always wakened him up temporarily — noticed 
them, and thought he really must speak to Faith about 
it and tell her that such conduct was not seemly. But 
he had forgotten the trifling incident by the time he 
reached home. They passed Mrs. Alec Davis, who 
shrieked in horror, and they passed Miss Rosemary 
West who laughed and sighed. Finally, just before 
the pigs swooped into Bertie Shakespeare Drew’s back 
yard, never to emerge therefrom again, so great had 
been the shock to their nerves — Faith and Walter 
jumped off, as Dr. and Mrs. Blythe drove swiftly by. 

“So that is how you bring up your boys,” said Gil- 
bert with mock severity. 


AN EXPLANATION AND A DARE 123 

‘Terhaps I do spoil them a little/' said Anne con- 
tritely, *‘but, oh, Gilbert, when I think of my own 
childhood before I came to Green Gables I haven’t the 
heart to be very strict. How hungry for love and fun 
I was — an unloved little drudge with never a chance 
to play ! They do have such good times with the manse 
children.” 

‘'What about the poor pigs ?” asked Gilbert. 

Anne tried to look sober and failed. 

“Do you really think it hurt them?” she said. “I 
don’t think anything could hurt those animals. They’ve 
been the plague of the neighbourhood this summer and 
the Drews won't shut them up. But I’ll talk to Walter 
— if I can keep from laughing when I do it.” 

Miss Cornelia came up to Ingleside that evening to 
relieve her feelings over Sunday night. To her sur- 
prise she found that Anne did not view Faith’s per- 
formance in quite the same light as she did. 

“I thought there was something brave and pathetic 
in her getting up there before that church ful of people, 
to confess,” she said. “You could see she was fright- 
ened to death — yet she was bound to clear her father. 
I loved her for it.” 

“Oh, of course, the poor child meant well,” sighed 
Miss Cornelia, “but just the same it was a terrible 
thing to do, and is making more talk than the house- 
cleaning on Sunday. That had begun to die away, and 
this has started it all up again. Rosemary West is like 
you — she said last night as she left the church that it 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


124 

was a plucky thing for Faith to do, but it made her feel 
sorry for the child, too. Miss Ellen thought it all a 
good joke, and said she hadn’t had as much fun in 
church for years. Of course they don’t care — they 
are Episcopalians. But we Presbyterians feel it. And 
there were so many hotel people there that night and 
scores of Methodists. Mrs. Leander Crawford cried, 
she felt so bad. And Mrs. Alec Davis said the little 
hussy ought to be well spanked.” 

‘‘Mrs. Leander Crawford is always crying in 
church,” said Susan contemptuously. “She cries over 
every affecting thing the minister says. But you do 
not often see her name on a subscription list, Mrs. Dr. 
dear. Tears come cheaper. She tried to talk to me 
one day about Aunt Martha being such a dirty house- 
keeper; and I wanted to say, ‘Every one knows that 
you have been seen mixing up cakes in the kitchen 
wash-pan, Mrs. Leander Crawford!’ But I did not 
say it, Mrs. Dr. dear, because I have too much respect 
for myself to condescend to argue with the likes of her. 
But I could tell worse things than that of Mrs. Leander 
Crawford, if I was disposed to gossip. And as for 
Mrs. Alec Davis, if she had said that to me, Mrs. 
Dr. dear, do you know what I would have said? I 
would have said, ‘I have no doubt you would like to 
spank Faith, Mrs. Davis, but you will never have the 
chance to spank a minister’s daughter either in this 
world or in that which is to come.’ ” 

“If poor Faith had only been decently dressed,” 


AN EXPLANATION AND A DARE 125 

lamented Miss Cornelia again, ‘‘it wouldn't have been 
quite so bad. But that dress looked dreadful, as she 
stood there upon the platform." 

“It was clean, though, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan. 
“They are clean children. They may be very heedless 
and reckless, Mrs. Dr. dear, and I am not saying they 
are not, but they never forget to wash behind their 
ears." 

“The idea of Faith forgetting what day was Sun- 
day," persisted Miss Cornelia. “She will grow up 
just as careless and impractical as her father, believe 
me. I suppose Carl would have known better if he 
hadn't been sick. I don't know what was wrong with 
him, but I think it very likely he had been eating those 
blueberries that grew in the graveyard. No wonder 
they made him sick. If I was a Methodist I'd try to 
keep my graveyard cleaned up at least." 

“I am of the opinion that Carl only ate the sours 
that grow on the dyke," said Susan hopefully. “I 
do not think any minister's son would eat blueberries 
that grew on the graves of dead people. You know it 
would not be so bad, Mrs. Dr. dear, to eat things that 
grew on the dyke." 

“The worst of last night's performance was the face 
Faith made at somebody in the congregation before 
she started in," said Miss Cornelia. “Elder Clow de- 
clares she made it at him. And did you hear that she 
was seen riding on a pig to-day ?" 

“I saw her. Walter was with her. I gave him a 


126 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


little — a very little — scolding about it. He did not say 
much, but he gave me the impression that it had been 
his idea and that Faith was not to blame.” 

‘‘I do not believe that, Mrs. Dr. dear,” cried Susan, 
up in arms. ‘That is just Walter’s way — ^to take the 
blame on himself. But you know as well as I do, Mrs. 
Dr. dear, that that blessed child would never have 
thought of riding on a pig, even if he does write 
poetry.” 

“Oh, there’s no doubt the notion was hatched in 
Faith Meredith’s brain,” said Miss Cornelia. “And I 
don’t say that I’m sorry that Amos Drew’s old pigs 
did get their come-uppance for once. But the minis- 
ter’s daughter !” 

^^And the doctor’s son !” said Anne, mimicking Miss 
Cornelia’s tone. Then she laughed. “Dear Miss Cor- 
nelia, they’re only little children. And you know 
they’ve never yet done anything bad — they’re just 
heedless and impulsive — as I was myself once. They’ll 
grow sedate and sober — as I’ve done.” 

Miss Cornelia laughed, too. 

“There are times, Anne dearie, when I know by 
your eyes that your soberness is put on like a garment 
and you’re really aching to do something wild and 
young again. Well, I feel encouraged. Somehow, a 
talk with you always does have that effect on me. 
Now, when I go to see Barbara Samson, it’s just the 
opposite. She makes me feel that everything’s wrong 
and always will be. But of course living all your life 


AN EXPLANATION AND A DARE 127 

with a man like Joe Samson wouldn’t be exactly cheer- 
in^. 

‘‘It is a very strange thing to think that she married 
Joe Samson after all her chances/' remarked Susan. 
“She was much sought after when she was a girl. She 
used to boast to me that she had twenty-one beaus and 
Mr. Pethick.” 

“What was Mr. Pethick?" 

“Well, he was a sort of hanger-on, Mrs. Dr. dear, 
but you could not exactly call him a beau. He did not 
really have any intentions. Twenty-one beaus — and 
me that never had one! But Barbara went through 
the woods and picked up the crooked stick after all. 
And yet they say her husband can make better baking 
powder biscuits than she can, and she always gets him 
to make them when company comes to tea." 

“Which reminds me that I have company coming 
to tea to-morrow and I must go home and set my 
bread," said Miss Cornelia. “Mary said she could 
set it and no doubt she could. But while I live and 
move and have my being I set my own bread, believe 
me." 

“How is Mary getting on ?" asked Anne. 

“Pve no fault to find with Mary," said Miss Cor- 
nelia rather gloomily. “She's getting some flesh on 
her bones and she's clean and respectful — though 
there's more in her than I can fathom. She's a sly 
puss. If you dug for a thousand years you couldn't 
get to the bottom of that child's mind, believe me/ As 


128 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


for work, I never saw anything like her. She eats it 
up. Mrs. Wiley may have been cruel to her, but folks 
needn^t say she made Mary work. Mary’s a born 
worker. Sometimes I wonder which will wear out 
first — ^her legs or her tongue. I don’t have enough to 
do to keep me out of mischief these days. I’ll be real 
glad when school opens, for then I’ll have something 
to do again. Mary doesn’t want to go to school, but 
I put my foot down and said that go she must. I shall 
not have the Methodists saying that I kept her out of 
school while I lolled in idleness.” 


CHAPTER XIII 
The PIouse on the Hill 

T here was a little unfailing spring, always icy 
cold and crystal pure in a certain birch-screened 
hollow of Rainbow Valley in the lower corner near 
the marsh. Not a great many people knew of its 
existence. The manse and Ingleside children knew, of 
course, as they knew everything else about the magic 
valley. Occasionally they went there to get a drink, 
and it figured in many of their plays as a fountain of 
old romance. Anne knew of it and loved it because 
it somehow reminded her of the beloved Dryad’s 
Bubble at Green Gables. Rosemary West knew of it; 
it was her fountain of romance, too. Eighteen years 
ago she had sat beside it one spring twilight and heard 
young Martin Crawford stammer out a confession of 
fervent, boyish love. She had whispered her own 
secret in return, and they had kissed and promised by 
the wild wood spring. They had never stood together 
by it again — Martin had sailed on his fatal voyage 
soon after; but to Rosemary West it was always a 
sacred spot, hallowed by that immortal hour of youth 
and love. Whenever she passed near it she turned 
aside to hold a secret tryst with an old dream — a dream 
from which the pain had long gone, leaving only its 
unforgettable sweetness. 


129 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


130 

The spring was a hidden thing. You might have 
passed within ten feet of it and never have suspected 
its existence. Two generations past a huge old pine 
had fallen almost across it. Nothing was left of the 
tree but its crumbling trunk out of which the ferns 
grew thickly, making a green roof and a lacy screen 
for the water. A maple tree grew beside it with a 
curiously gnarled and twisted trunk, creeping along 
the ground for a little way before shooting up into 
the air, and so forming a quaint seat; and September 
had flung a scarf of pale smoke-blue asters around the 
hollow. 

John Meredith, taking the cross-lots road through 
Rainbow Valley on his way home from some pastoral 
visitations around the Harbour head one evening, 
turned aside to drink of the little spring. Walter 
Blythe had shown it to him one afternoon only a few 
days before, and they had had a long talk together on 
the maple seat. John Meredith, under all his shyness 
and aloofness, had the heart of a boy. He had been 
called Jack in his youth, though nobody in Glen St. 
Mary would ever have believed it. Walter and he 
had taken to each other and had talked unreservedly. 
Mr. Meredith found his way into some sealed and 
sacred chambers of the lad’s soul wherein not even Di 
had ever looked. They were to be chums from that 
friendly hour and Walter knew that he would never 
be frightened of the minister again. 

‘T never believed before that it was possible to get 


THE HOUSE ON THE HILL 131 

really acquainted with a minister/' he told his mother 
that night. 

John Meredith drank from his slender white hand, 
whose grip of steel always surprised people who were 
unacquainted with it, and then sat down on the maple 
seat. He was in no hurry to go home; this was a 
beautiful spot and he was mentally weary after a 
round of rather uninspiring conversations with many 
good and stupid people. The moon was rising. Rain- 
bow Valley was wind-haunted and star-sentinelled 
only where he was, but afar from the upper end came 
the gay notes of children's laughter and voices. 

The ethereal beauty of the asters in the moonlight, 
the glimmer of the little spring, the soft croon of the 
brook, the wavering grace of the brackens all wove a 
white magic round John Meredith. He forgot con- 
gregational worries and spiritual problems; the years 
slipped away from him; he was a young divinity stu- 
dent again and the roses of June were blooming red 
and fragrant on the dark, queenly head of his Cecilia. 
He sat there and dreamed like any boy. And it was 
at this propitious moment that Rosemary West stepped 
aside from the by-path and stood beside him in that 
dangerous, spell-weaving place. John Meredith stood 
up as she came in and saw her — really saw her — for 
the first time. 

He had met her in his church once or twice and 
shaken hands with her abstractedly as he did with 
any one he happened to encounter on his way down 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


132 

the aisle. He had never met her elsewhere, for the 
Wests were Episcopalians, with church affinities in 
Lowbridge, and no occasion for calling upon them had 
ever arisen. Before to-night, if any one had asked 
John Meredith what Rosemary West looked like he 
would not have had the slightest notion. But he was 
never to forget her, as she appeared to him in the 
glamour of kind moonlight by the spring. 

She was certainly not in the least like Cecilia, who 
had always been his ideal of womanly beauty. Cecilia 
had been small and dark and vivacious — Rosemary 
West was tall and fair and placid, yet John Meredith 
thought he had never seen so beautiful a woman. 

She was bareheaded and her golden hair — hair of a 
warm gold, ^'molasses taffy” colour as Di Blythe had 
said — was pinned in sleek, close coils over her head; 
she had large, tranquil, blue eyes that always seemed 
full of friendliness, a high white forehead and a finely 
shaped face. 

Rosemary West was always called a “sweet woman.” 
She was so sweet that even her high-bred, stately air 
had never gained for her the reputation of being 
“stuck-up,” which it would inevitably have done in 
the case of any one else in Glen St. Mary. Life had 
taught her to be brave, to be patient, to love, to forgive. 
She had watched the ship on which her lover went 
sailing out of Four Winds Harbour into the sunset. 
But, though she watched long, she had never seen it 
coming sailing back. That vigil had taken girlhood 


THE HOUSE ON THE HILL 133 

from her eyes, yet she kept her youth to a marvellous 
degree. Perhaps this was because she always seemed 
to preserve that attitude of delighted surprise towards 
life which most of us leave behind in childhood — an 
attitude which not only made Rosemary herself seem 
young, but flung a pleasing illusion of youth over the 
consciousness of every one who talked to her. 

John Meredith was startled by her loveliness and 
Rosemary was startled by his presence. She had never 
thought she would find any one by that remote spring, 
least of all the recluse of Glen St. Mary manse. She 
almost dropped the heavy armful of books she was 
carrying home from the Glen lending library, and then, 
to cover her confusion, she told one of those small 
fibs which even the best of women do tell at times. 

“I — I came for a drink,” she said, stammering a 
little, in answer to Mr. Meredith^s grave '^good-eve- 
ning. Miss West.” She felt that she was an unpardon- 
able goose and she longed to shake herself. But John 
Meredith was not a vain man and he knew she would 
likely have been as much startled had she met old Elder 
Clow in that unexpected fashion. Her confusion put 
him at ease and he forgot to be shy; besides, even the 
shyest of men can sometimes be quite audacious in 
moonlight. 

“Let me get you a cup,” he said smiling. There was 
a cup nearby, if he had only known it, a cracked, 
handleless blue cup secreted under the maple by the 
Rainbow Valley children; but he did not know it, so 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


134 

he stepped out to one of the birch trees and stripped a 
bit of its white skin away. Deftly he fashioned this 
into a three-cornered cup, filled it from the spring, and 
handed it to Rosemary. 

Rosemary took it and drank every drop to punish 
herself for her fib, for she was not in the least thirsty, 
and to drink a fairly large cupful of water when you 
are not thirsty is something of an ordeal. Yet the 
memory of that draught was to be very pleasant to 
Rosemary. In after years it seemed to her that there 
was something sacramental about it. Perhaps this was 
because of what the minister did when she handed him 
back the cup. He stooped again and filled it and drank 
of it himself. It was only by accident that he put his 
lips just where Rosemary had put hers, and Rosemary 
knew it. Nevertheless, it had a curious significance 
for her. They two had drunk of the same cup. She 
remembered idly that an old aunt of hers used to say 
that when two people did this their after-lives would 
be linked in some fashion, whether for good or ill. 

John Meredith held the cup uncertainly. He did not 
know what to do with it. The logical thing would 
have been to toss it away, but somehow he was dis- 
inclined to do this. Rosemary held out her hand for it. 

‘'Will you let me have it?'' she said. “You made it 
so knackily. I never saw any one make a birch cup 
so since my little brother used to make them long ago 
— before he died." 

“I learned how to make them when I was a boy. 


THE HOUSE ON THE HILL 135 

camping out one summer. An old hunter taught me/" 
said Mr. Meredith. ‘‘Let me carry your books, Miss 
West."" 

Rosemary was startled into another fib and said oh, 
they were not heavy. But the minister took them from 
her with quite a masterful air and they walked away 
together. It was the first time Rosemary had stood 
by the valley spring without thinking of Martin Craw- 
ford. The mystic tryst had been broken. 

The little by-path wound around the marsh and then 
struck up the long wooded hill on the top of which 
Rosemary lived. Beyond, through the trees, they could 
see the moonlight shining across the level summer 
fields. But the little path was shadowy and narrow. 
Trees crowded over it, and trees are never quite as 
friendly to human beings after nightfall as they are 
in daylight. They wrap themselves away from us. 
They whisper and plot furtively. If they reach out 
a hand to us it has a hostile, tentative touch. People 
walking amid trees after night always draw closer 
together instinctively and involuntarily, making an 
alliance, physical and mental, against certain alien 
powers around them. Rosemaryis dress brushed 
against John Meredith as they walked. Not even an 
absent minded minister, who was after all a young 
man still, though he firmly believed he had outlived 
romance, could be insensible to the charm of the night 
and the path and the companion. 

It is never quite safe to think we have done with 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


136 

life. When we imagine we have finished our story- 
fate has a trick of turning the page and showing us 
yet another chapter. These two people each thought 
their hearts belonged irrevocably to the past; but they 
both found their walk up that hill very pleasant. Rose- 
mary thought the Glen minister was by no means as 
shy and tongue-tied as he had been represented. He 
seemed to find no difficulty in talking easily and freely. 
Glen housewives would have been amazed had they 
heard him. But then so many Glen housewives talked 
only of gossip and the price of eggs, and John Mere- 
dith was not interested in either. He talked to Rose- 
mary of books and music and wide-world doings and 
something of his own history, and found that she 
could understand and respond. Rosemary, it ap- 
peared, possessed a book which Mr. Meredith had 
not read and wished to read. She offered to lend it 
to him and when they reached the old homestead on 
the hill he went in to get it. 

The house itself was an old-fashioned gray one, 
hung with vines, through which the light in the sitting 
room winked in friendly fashion. It looked down the 
Glen, over the harbour, silvered in the moonlight, to 
the sand-dunes and the moaning ocean. They walked 
in through a garden that always seemed to smtil of 
roses, even when no roses were in bloom. There was 
a sisterhood of lilies at the gate and a ribbon of asters 
on either side of the broad walk, and a lacery of fir 
trees on the hill’s edge beyond the house. 


THE HOUSE ON THE HILL 137 

‘'You have the whole world at your doorstep here/’ 
said John Meredith, with a long breath. “What a view 
— what an outlook ! At times I feel stifled down there 
in the Glen. You can breathe up here.” 

“It is calm to-night,” said Rosemary laughing. “If 
there were a wind it would blow your breath away. 
We get ‘a’ the airts the wind can blow’ up here. This 
place should be called Four Winds instead of the Har- 
bour.” 

“I like wind,” he said. “A day when there is no 
wind seems to me dead. A windy day wakes me up.” 
He gave a conscious laugh. “On a calm day I fall 
into day dreams. No doubt you know my reputation, 
Miss West. If I cut you dead the next time we meet 
don’t put it down to bad manners. Please understand 
that it is only abstraction and forgive me — and speak 
to me.” 

They found Ellen West in the sitting room when 
they went in. She laid her glasses down on the book 
she had been reading and looked at them in an amaze- 
ment tinctured with something else. But she shook 
hands amiably with Mr. Meredith and he sat down and 
talked to her, while Rosemary hunted out his book. 

Ellen West was ten years older than Rosemary, and 
so different from her that it was hard to believe they 
were sisters. She was dark and massive, with black 
hair, thick, black eyebrows and eyes of the clear, slaty 
blue of the gulf water in a north wind. She had a 
rather stern, forbidding look, but she was in reality 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


138 

very jolly, with a hearty, gurgling laugh and a deep, 
mellow, pleasant voice with a suggestion of masculinity 
about it. She had once remarked to Rosemary that 
she would really like to have a talk with that Presby- 
terian minister at the Glen, to see if he could find a 
word to say to a woman when he was cornered. She 
had her chance now and she tackled him on world 
politics. Miss Ellen, who was a great reader, had 
been devouring a book on the Kaiser of Germany, and 
she demanded Mr. Meredith's opinion of him. 
dangerous man,” was his answer. 

‘‘I believe you!” Miss Ellen nodded. '‘Mark my 
words, Mr. Meredith, that man is going to fight some- 
body yet. He’s aching to. He is going to set the world 
on fire.” 

“If you mean that he will wantonly precipitate a 
great war I hardly think so,” said Mr. Meredith. “The 
day has gone by for that sort of thing.” 

“Bless you, it hasn’t,” rumbled Ellen. “The day 
never goes by for men and nations to make asses of 
themselves and take to the fists. The millennium isn’t 
that near, Mr. Meredith, and you don’t think it is any 
more than I do. As for this Kaiser, mark my words, 
he is going to make a heap of trouble” — and Miss 
Ellen prodded her book emphatically with her long 
finger. “Yes, if he isn’t nipped in the bud he’s going 
to make trouble. We'll live to see it — you and I will 
live to see it, Mr. Meredith. And who is going to nip 


THE HOUSE ON THE HILL 139 

him? England should, but she won’t. Who is going 
to nip him? Tell me that, Mr. Meredith.” 

Mr. Meredith couldn’t tell her, but they plunged into 
a discussion of German militarism that lasted long 
after Rosemary had found the book. Rosemary said 
nothing, but sat in a little rocker behind Ellen and 
stroked an important black cat meditatively. John 
Meredith hunted big game in Europe with Ellen, but 
he looked oftener at Rosemary than at Ellen, and Ellen 
noticed it. After Rosemary had gone to the door with 
him and come back Ellen rose and looked at her ac^ 
cusingly. 

"‘Rosemary West, that man has a notion of courting 
you.” 

Rosemary quivered. Ellen’s speech was like a blow 
to her. It rubbed all the bloom off the pleasant eve- 
ning. But she would not let Ellen see how it hurt her. 

“Nonsense,” she said, and laughed, a little too care- 
lessly. “You see a beau for me in every bush, Ellen. 
Why he told me all about his wife to-night — how much 
she was to him — how empty her death had left the 
world.” 

“Well, that may be his way of courting,” retorted 
Ellen. “Men have all kinds of ways, I understand. 
But don’t forget your promise, Rosemary.” 

“There is no need of my either forgetting or remem- 
bering it,” said Rosemary, a little wearily. ''You for- 
get that I’m an old maid, Ellen. It is only your 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


140 

sisterly delusion that I am still young and blooming 
and dangerous. Mr. Meredith merely wants to be a 
friend — if he wants that much itself. He’ll forget us 
both long before he gets back to the manse.” 

^‘I’ve no objection to your being friends with him,” 
conceded Ellen, ‘‘but it mustn’t go beyond friendship, 
remember. I’m always suspicious of widowers. They 
are not given to romantic ideas about friendship. 
They’re apt to mean business. As for this Presby- 
terian man, what do they call him shy for? He’s not 
a bit shy, though he may be absent-minded — so absent- 
minded that he forgot to say goodnight to me when 
you started to go to the door with him. He’s got 
brains, too. There’s so few men round here that can 
talk sense to a body. I’ve enjoyed the evening. I 
wouldn’t mind seeing more of him. But no philander- 
ing, Rosemary, mind you — no philandering.” 

Rosemary was quite used to being warned by Ellen 
from philandering if she so much as talked five minutes 
to any marriageable man under eighty or over eighteen. 
She had always laughed at the warning with unfeigned 
amusement. This time it did not amuse her — it irri- 
tated her a little. Who wanted to philander? 

“Don’t be such a goose, Ellen,” she said with unac- 
customed shortness as she took her lamp. She went 
upstairs without saying goodnight. 

Ellen shook her head dubiously and looked at the 
black cat. 

“What is she so cross about, St. George?” she asked. 


THE HOUSE ON THE HILL 141 

‘‘When you howl you’re hit, Tve always heard, George. 
But she promised. Saint — she promised, and we Wests 
always keep our word. So it won’t matter if he does 
want to philander, George. She promised. I won’t 
worry.” 

Upstairs, in her room, Rosemary sat for a long 
while looking out of the window across the moonlit 
garden to the distant, shining harbour. She felt 
vaguely upsei: and unsettled. She was suddenly tired 
of outworn dreams. And in the garden the petals of 
the last red rose were scattered by a sudden little wind. 
Summer was over — it was autumn. 


CHAPTER XIV 


Mrs. Alec Davis Makes a Call 

J OHN MEREDITH walked slowly home. At first 
he thought a little about Rosemary, but by the time 
he reached Rainbow Valley he had forgotten all about 
her and was meditating on a point regarding German 
theology which Ellen had raised. He passed through 
Rainbow Valley and knew it not. The charm of Rain- 
bow Valley had no potency against German theology. 
When he reached the manse he went to his study and 
took down a bulky volume in order to see which had 
been right, he or Ellen. He remained immersed in its 
mazes until dawn, struck a new trail of speculation and 
pursued it like a sleuth hound for the next week, 
utterly lost to the world, his parish and his family. He 
read day and night ; he forgot to go to his meals when 
Una was not there to drag him to them; he never 
thought about Rosemary or Ellen again. Old Mrs. 
Marshall, over-harbour, was very ill and sent for him, 
but the message lay unheeded on his desk and gathered 
dust. Mrs. Marshall recovered but never forgave him, 
A young couple came to the manse to be married and 
Mr. Meredith, with unbrushed hair, in carpet slippers 
and faded dressing gown, married them. To be sure, 
he began by reading the funeral service to them and 
142 


MRS. DAVIS MAKES A CALL 143 

got along as far as ‘‘ashes to ashes and dust to dust*' 
before he vaguely suspected that something was wrong. 

“Dear me/* he said absently, “that is strange — ^very 
strange.** 

The bride, who was very nervous, began to cry. The 
bridegroom, who was not in the least nervous, giggled. 

“Please, sir, I think you're burying us instead of 
marrying us," he said. 

“Excuse me," said Mr. Meredith, as if it did not 
matter much. He turned up the marriage service and 
got through with it, but the bride never felt quite 
properly married for the rest of her life. 

He forgot his prayer meeting again — ^but that did 
not matter, for it was a wet night and nobody came. 
He might even have forgotten his Sunday service if 
it had not been for Mrs. Alec Davis. Aunt Martha 
came in on Saturday afternoon and told him that Mrs. 
Davis was in the parlour and wanted to see him. Mr. 
Meredith sighed. Mrs. Davis was the only woman in 
Glen St. Mary church whom he positively detested. 
Unfortunately, she was also the richest, and his board 
of managers had warned Mr. Meredith against offend- 
ing her. Mr. Meredith seldom thought of such a 
worldly matter as his stipend ; but the managers were 
more practical. Also, they were astute. Without men- 
tioning money, they contrived to instil into Mr. Mere- 
dith’s mind a conviction that he should not offend Mrs. 
Davis. Otherwise, he would likely have forgotten all 
about her as soon as Aunt Martha had gone out. As 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


144 

it was, he turned down his Ewald with a feeling of 
annoyance and went across the hall to the parlour. 

Mrs. Davis was sitting on the sofa, looking about 
her with an air of scornful disapproval. 

What a scandalous room! There were no curtains 
on the window. Mrs. Davis did not know that Faith 
and Una had taken them down the day before to use 
as court trains in one of their plays and had forgotten 
to put them up again, but she could not have accused 
those windows more fiercely if she had known. The 
blinds were cracked and torn. The pictures on the 
walls were crooked; the rugs were awry; the vases 
were full of faded flowers; the dust lay in heaps — 
literally in heaps. 

“What are we coming to?” Mrs. Davis asked her- 
self, and then primmed up her unbeautiful mouth. 

Jerry and Carl had been whooping and sliding down 
the bannisters as she came through the hall. They 
did not see her and continued whooping and sliding, 
and Mrs. Davis was convinced they did it on purpose. 
Faith^s pet rooster ambled through the hall, stood in 
the parlour doorway and looked at her. Not liking her 
looks, he did not venture in. Mrs. Davis gave a scorn- 
ful sniff. A pretty manse, indeed, where roosters 
paraded the halls and stared people out of countenance. 

“Shoo, there,” commanded Mrs. Davis, poking her 
flounced, changeable-silk parasol at him. 

Adam shooed. He was a wise rooster and Mrs. 
Davis had wrung the necks of so many roosters with 


MRS. DAVIS MAKES A CALL 145 

her own fair hands in the course of her fifty years 
that an air of the executioner seemed to hang around 
her. Adam scuttled through the hall as the minister 
came in. 

Mr. Meredith still wore slippers and dressing gown, 
and his dark hair still fell in uncared-for locks over 
his high brow. But he looked the gentleman he was; 
and Mrs. Alec Davis, in her silk dress and be-plumed 
bonnet, and kid gloves and gold chain looked the vul- 
gar, coarse-souled woman she was. Each felt the 
antagonism of the other’s personality. Mr. Meredith 
shrank, but Mrs. Davis girded up her loins for the 
fray. She had come to the manse to propose a certain 
thing to the minister and she meant to lose no time in 
proposing it. She was going to do him a favour — a 
great favour— and the sooner he was made aware of 
it the better. She had been thinking about it all summer 
and had come to a decision at last. This was all that 
mattered, Mrs. Davis thought. When she decided a 
thing it was decided. Nobody else had any say in the 
matter. That had always been her attitude. When she 
had made up her mind to marry Alec Davis she had 
married him and that was the end to it. Alec had never 
known how it happened, but what odds? So in this 
case — Mrs. Davis had arranged everything to her own 
satisfaction. Now it only remained to inform Mr. 
Meredith. 

'Will you please shut that door?” said Mrs. Davis, 
unprimming her mouth slightly to say it, but speaking 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


146 

with asperity. “I have something important to say, 
and I can’t say it with that racket in the hall.” 

Mr. Meredith shut the door meekly. Then he sat 
down before Mrs. Davis. He was not wholly aware 
of her yet. His mind was still wrestling with Ewald’s 
arguments. Mrs. Davis sensed this detachment and 
it annoyed her. 

‘T have come to tell you, Mr. Meredith,” she said 
aggressively, ‘'that I have decided to adopt Una.” 

“To — adopt — Una!” Mr. Meredith gazed at her 
blankly, not understanding in the least. 

“Yes. I’ve been thinking it over for some time. I 
have often thought of adopting a child, since my hus- 
band’s death. But it seemed so hard to get a suitable 
one. It is very few children I would want to take into 
my home. I wouldn’t think of taking a home-child — 
some outcast of the slums in all probability. And there 
is hardly ever any other child to be got. One of the 
fishermen down at the harbour mouth died last fall 
and left six youngsters. They tried to get me to take 
one, but I soon gave them to understand I had no idea 
of adopting trash like that. Their grandfather stole 
a horse. Besides, they were all boys and I wanted a 
girl — a quiet, obedient girl that I could train up to be 
a lady. Una will suit me exactly. She would be a 
nice little thing if she was properly looked after — so 
different from Faith. I would never dream of adopt- 
ing Faith. But Til take Una and I’ll give her a good 
home, and up-bringing, Mr. Meredith,, and if she be- 


MRS. DAVIS MAKES A CALL 147 

haves herself Til leave her all my money when I die. 
Not one of my own relatives shall have a cent of it 
in any case, Fm determined on that. It was the idea 
of aggravating them that set me to thinking of adopt- 
ing a child as much as anything in the first place. Una 
shall be well dressed and educated and trained, Mr. 
Meredith, and I shall give her music and painting les- 
sons and treat her as if she was my own.” 

Mr. Meredith was wide enough awake by this time. 
There was a faint flush in his pale cheek and a danger- 
! ous light in his fine dark eyes. Was this woman, 
i whose vulgarity and consciousness of money oozed 
j out of her at every pore, actually asking him to give 
j her Una — his dear little wistful Una with Cecilia’s 
I own dark blue eyes — the child whom the dying mother 
had clasped to her heart after the other children had 
been led weeping from the room. Cecilia had clung 
to her baby until the gates of death shut between them. 
She had looked over the little dark head to her hus- 
band. 

“Take good care of her, John,” she had entreated. 
“She is so small — and sensitive. The others can fight 
I their way — but the world will hurt her. Oh, John, I 
don’t know what you and she are going to do. You 
both need me so much. But keep her close to you — 
keep her close to you.” 

These had been almost her last words except a few 
unforgettable ones for him alone. And it was this 
child whom Mrs. Davis had coolly announced her in- 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


148 

tention of taking from him. He sat up straight and 
looked at Mrs. Davis. In spite of the worn dressing 
gown and the frayed slippers there was something 
about him that made Mrs. Davis feel a little of the 
old reverence for ‘‘the cloth’^ in which she had been 
brought up. After all, there was a certain divinity 
hedging a minister, even a poor, unworldly, abstracted 
one. 

“I thank you for your kind intentions, Mrs. Davis,” 
said Mr. Meredith with a gentle, final, quite awful 
courtesy, “but I cannot give you my child.” 

Mrs. Davis looked blank. She had never dreamed 
of his refusing. 

“Why, Mr. Meredith,” she said in astonishment. 

“You must be cr you can’t mean it. You must 

think it over — think of all the advantages I can give 
her.” 

“There is no need to think it over, Mrs. Davis. It 
is entirely out of the question. All the worldly ad- 
vantages it is in your power to bestow on her could 
not compensate for the loss of a father’s love and care. 
I thank you again — but it is not to be thought of.” 

Disappointment angered Mrs. Davis beyond the 
power of old habit to control. Her broad red face 
turned purple and her voice trembled. 

“I thought you’d be only too glad to let me have 
her,” she sneered. 

“Why did you think that?” asked Mr. Meredith 
quietly. 


MRS. DAVIS MAKES A CALL 149 

‘‘Because nobody ever supposed you cared anything 
about any of your children,” retorted Mrs. Davis con- 
temptuously. “You neglect them scandalously. It is 
the talk of the place. They aren't fed or dressed prop- 
erly, and they’re not trained at all. They have no more 
manners than a pack of wild Indians. You never 
think of doing your duty as a father. You let a stray 
child come here among them for a fortnight and never 
took any notice of her — a child that swore like a 
trooper I’m told. You wouldn’t have cared if they’d 
caught small-pox from her. And Faith made an 
exhibition of herself getting up in preaching and mak- 
ing that speech ! And she rid a pig down the street — 
under your very eyes I understand. The way they act 
is past belief and you never lift a finger to stop them 
or try to teach them anything. And now when I offer 
one of them a good home and good prospects you re- 
fuse it and insult me. A pretty father you, to talk of 
loving and caring for your children !” 

“That will do, woman!” said Mr. Meredith. He 
stood up and looked at Mrs. Davis with eyes that made 
her quail. “That will do,” he repeated. “I desire to 
hear no more, Mrs. Davis. You have said too much. 
It may be that I have been remiss in some respects in 
my duty as a parent, but it is not for you to remind 
me of it in such terms as you have used. Let us say 
good afternoon.” 

Mrs. Davis did not say anything half so amiable as 
good afternoon, but she took her departure. As she 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


150 

swept past the minister a large, plump toad, which Carl 
had secreted under the lounge, hopped out almost 
under her feet. Mrs. Davis gave a shriek and in trying 
to avoid treading on the awful thing, lost her balance 
and her parasol. She did not exactly fall, but she 
staggered and reeled across the room in a very undigni- 
fied fashion and brought up against the door with a 
thud that jarred her from head to foot. Mr. Meredith, 
who had not seen the toad, wondered if she had been 
attacked with some kind of apoplectic or paralytic 
seizure, and ran in alarm to her assistance. But Mrs. 
Davis, recovering her feet, waved him back furiously. 

‘‘Don’t you dare to touch me,” she almost shouted. 
“This is some more of your children’s doings, I sup- 
pose. This is no fit place for a decent woman. Give 
me my umbrella and let me go. I’ll never darken the 
doors of your manse or your church again.” 

Mr. Meredith picked up the gorgeous parasol meekly 
enough and gave it to her. Mrs. Davis seized it and 
marched out. Jerry and Carl had given up bannister 
sliding and were sitting on the edge of the veranda 
with Faith. Unfortunately, all three were singing at 
the tops of their healthy young voices “There’ll be a 
hot time in the old town to-night.” Mrs. Davis be- 
lieved the song was meant for her and her only. She 
stopped and shook her parasol at them. 

“Your father is a fool,” she said, “and you are three 
young varmints that ought to be whipped within an 
inch of your lives.” 


MRS. DAVIS MAKES A CALL 151 

'*He isn’t,” cried Faith. “We’re not,” cried the 
boys. But Mrs. Davis was gone. 

“Goodness, isn’t she mad!” said Jerry. “And what 
is a Varmint’ anyhow ?” 

John Meredith paced up and down the parlour for a 
few minutes; then he went back to his study and sat 
down. But he did not return to his German theology. 
He was too grievously disturbed for that. Mrs. Davis 
had wakened him up with a vengeance. IVas he such 
a remiss, careless father as she had accused him of 
being? Had he- so scandalously neglected the bodily 
and spiritual welfare of the four little motherless crea- 
tures dependent on him? Were his people talking of 
it as harshly as Mrs. Davis had declared? It must be 
so, since Mrs. Davis had come to ask for Una in the 
full and confident belief that he would hand the child 
over to her as unconcernedly and gladly as one might 
hand over a strayed, unwelcome kitten. And, if so, 
what then ? 

John Meredith groaned and resumed his pacing up 
and down the dusty, disordered room. What could 
he do ? He loved his children as deeply as any father 
could and he knew, past the power of Mrs. Davis or 
any of her ilk, to disturb his conviction, that they loved 
him devotedly. But was he fit to have charge of them? 
He knew — none better — his weaknesses and limita- 
tions. What was needed was a good woman’s presence 
and influence and common sense. But how could that 
be arranged? Even were he able to get such a house- 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


152 

keeper it would cut Aunt Martha to the quick. She 
believed she could still do all that was meet and neces- 
sary. He could not so hurt and insult the poor old 
woman who had been so kind to him and his. How 
devoted she had been to Cecilia! And Cecilia had 
asked him to be very considerate of Aunt Martha. To 
be sure, he suddenly remembered that Aunt Martha 
had once hinted that he ought to marry again. He felt 
she would not resent a wife as she would a house- 
keeper. But that was out of the question. He did not 
wish to marry — he did not and could not care for 
any one. Then what could he do? It suddenly 
occurred to him that he would go over to Ingleside 
and talk over his difficulties with Mrs. Blythe. Mrs. 
Blythe was one of the few women he never felt shy 
or tongue-tied with. She was always so sympathetic 
and refreshing. It might be that she could suggest 
some solution of his problems. And even if she could 
not Mr. Meredith felt that he needed a little decent 
human companionship after his dose of Mrs. Davis — 
something to take the taste of her out of his soul. 

He dressed hurriedly and ate his supper less ab- 
stractedly than usual. It occurred to him that it was 
a poor meal. He looked at his children; they were 
rosy and healthy looking enough — except Una, and she 
had never been very strong even when her mother was 
alive. They were all laughing and talking — certainly 
they seemed happy. Carl was especially happy because 
he had two most beautiful spiders crawling around his 


MRS. DAVIS MAKES A CALL 153 

supper plate. Their voices were pleasant, their man- 
ners did not seem bad, they were considerate of and 
gentle to one another. Yet Mrs. Davis had said their 
behaviour was the talk of the congregation. 

As Mr. Meredith went through his gate Dr. Blythe 
and Mrs. Blythe drove past on the road that led to 
Lowbridge. The minister’s face fell. Mrs. Blythe 
was going away — there was no use in going to Ingle- 
side. And he craved a little companionship more 
than ever. As he gazed rather hopelessly over the 
landscape the sunset light struck on a window of 
the old West homestead on the hill. It flared out 
rosily like a beacon of good hope. He suddenly re- 
membered Rosemary and Ellen West. He thought 
that he would relish some of Ellen’s pungent conver- 
sation. He thought it would be pleasant to see Rose- 
mary’s slow, sweet smile and calm, heavenly blue eyes 
again. What did that old poem of Sir Philip Sidney’s 
say? — ‘jcontinual comfort in a face” — that just suited 
her. And he needed comfort. Why not go and call ? 
He remembered that Ellen had asked him to drop in 
sometimes and there was Rosemary’s book to take 
back — he ought to take it back before he forgot. He 
had an uneasy suspicion that there were a great many 
books in his library which he had borrowed at sundry 
times and in divers places and had forgotten to take 
back. It was surely his duty to guard against that in 
this case. He went back into his study, got the book, 
and plunged downward into Rainbow Valley. 


CHAPTER XV 
More Gossip 

O N the evening after Mrs. Myra Murray of the 
over-harbour section had been buried Miss Cor- 
nelia and Mary Vance came up to Ingleside. There 
were several things concerning whic'h Miss Cornelia 
wished to unburden her soul. The funeral had to be 
all talked over, of course. Susan and Miss Cornelia 
thrashed this out between them ; Anne took no part or 
delight in such ghoulish conversations. She sat a little 
apart and watched the autumnal flame of dahlias in 
the garden, and the dreaming, glamorous harbour 
of the September sunset. Mary Vance sat beside her, 
knitting meekly. Mary’s heart was down in Rainbow 
Valley, whence came sweet, distance-softened sounds 
of children’s laughter, but her fingers were under Miss 
Cornelia’s eye. She had to knit so many rounds of 
her stocking before she might go to the valley. Mary 
knit and held her tongue, but used her ears. 

“I never saw a nicer looking corpse,” said Miss Cor- 
nelia judicially. "‘Myra Murray was always a pretty 
woman — she was a Corey from Lowbridge and the 
Coreys were noted for their good looks.” 

‘T said to the corpse as I passed it, ^poor woman, I 
hope you are as happy as you look,’ ” sighed Susan. 
‘'She had not changed much. That dress she wore was 
154 


MORE GOSSIP 


155 

the black satin she got for her daughter’s wedding 
fourteen years ago. Her aunt told her then to keep 
it for her funeral, but Myra laughed and said, ‘I may 
wear it to my funeral. Aunty, but I will have a good 
time out of it first.’ And I may say she did. Myra 
Murray was not a woman to attend her own funeral 
before she died. Many a time afterwards when I 
saw her enjoying herself out in company I thought to 
myself, *You are a handsome woman, Myra Murray, 
and that dress becomes you, but it will likely be your 
shroud at last.’ And you see my words have come 
true, Mrs. Marshall Elliott.” 

Susan sighed again heavily. She was enjoying her- 
self hugely. A funeral was really a delightful subject 
of conversation. 

always liked to meet Myra,” said Miss Cornelia. 
‘‘She was always so gay and cheerful — she made you 
feel better just by her handshake. Myra always made 
the best of things.” 

“That is true,” asserted Susan. “Her sister-in-law 
told me that when the doctor told her at last that he 
could do nothing for her and she would never rise 
from that bed again, Myra said quite cheerfully, ‘Well, 
if that is so. I’m thankful the preserving is all done, 
and I will not have to face the fall housecleaning. I 
always liked housecleaning in spring,’ she says, ‘but I 
always hated it in the fall. I will get clear of it this 
year, thank goodness.’ There are people who would 
call that levity, Mrs. Marshall Elliott, and I think her 


156 RAINBOW VALLEY 

sister-in-law was a little ashamed of it. She said per- 
haps her sickness had made Myra a little light-headed. 
But I said, ‘No, Mrs. Murray, do not worry over it. 
It was just Myra’s way of looking at the bright side.’ ” 

“Her sister Luella was just the opposite,” said Miss 
Cornelia. “There was no bright side for Luella — 
there was just black and shades of gray. For years 
she used always to be declaring she was going to die 
in a week or so. T won’t be here to burden you long,’ 
she would tell her family with a groan. And if any 
of them ventured to talk about their little future plans 
she’d groan also and say, ‘Ah, I won’t be here then.’ 
When I went to see her I always agreed with her and 
it made her so mad that she was always quite a lot 
better for several days afterward. She has better 
health now but no more cheerfulness. Myra was so 
different. She was always doing or saying something 
to make someone feel good. Perhaps the men they 
married had something to do with it. Luella’s man 
was a Tartar, believe mCj while Jim Murray was 
decent, as men go. He looked heart-broken to-day. 
It isn’t often I feel sorry for a man at his wife’s 
funeral, but I did feel for Jim Murray.” 

“No wonder he looked sad. He will not get a wife 
like Myra again in a hurry,” said Susan. “Maybe he 
will not try, since his children are all grown up and 
Mirabel is able to keep house. But there is no predict- 
ing what a widower may or may not do and I, for 
one, will not try.” 


MORE GOSSIP 


157 

“We’ll miss Myra terrible in church,” said Miss 
Cornelia. “She was such a worker. Nothing ever 
stumped her. If she couldn’t get over a difficulty she’d 
get around it, and if she couldn’t get around it she’d 
pretend it wasn’t there — and generally it wasn’t. ‘I’ll 
keep a stiff upper lip to my journey’s end,’ said she to 
me once. Well, she has ended her journey.” 

“Do you think so?” asked Anne suddenly, coming 
back from dreamland. “I can’t picture her journey 
as being ended. Can you think of her sitting down 
and folding her hands — that eager, asking spirit of 
hers, with its fine adventurous outlook? No, I think 
in death she just opened a gate and went through — 
on — on — to new, shining adventures.” 

“Maybe — maybe,” assented Miss Cornelia. “Do 
you know, Anne dearie, I never was much taken with 
this everlasting rest doctrine myself — though I hope 
it isn’t heresy to say so. I want to bustle round in 
heaven the same as here. And I hope there’ll be a 
celestial substitute for pies and doughnuts — something 
that has to be made. Of course, one does get awful 
tired at times — and the older you are the tireder you 
get. But the very tiredest could get rested in some- 
thing short of eternity, you’d think — except, perhaps, 
a lazy man.” 

“When I meet Myra Murray again,” said Anne, “I 
want to see her coming towards me, brisk and laugh- 
ing, just as she always did here.” 

“Oh, Mrs. Dr. dear,” said Susan, in a shocked tone, 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


158 

‘'you surely do not think that Myra will be laughing 
in the world to come ?” 

“Why not, Susan ? Do you think we will be crying 
there 't” 

“No, no, Mrs. Dr. dear, do not misunderstand me. 
I do not think we shall be either crying or laughing.” 

“What then?” 

“Well,” said Susan, driven to it, “it is my opinion, 
Mrs. Dr. dear, that we shall just look solemn and 
holy.” 

“And do you really think, Susan,” said Anne, look- 
ing solemn enough, “that either Myra Murray or I 
could look solemn and holy all the time — all the time, 
Susan ?” 

“Well,” admitted Susan reluctantly, “I might go 
so far as to say that you both would have to smile now 
and again, but I can never admit that there will be 
laughing in heaven. The idea seems really irreverent, 
Mrs. Dr. dear.” 

“Well, to come back to earth,” said Miss Cornelia, 
“who can we get to take Myra’s class in Sunday 
School? Julia Clow has been teaching it since Myra 
took ill, but she’s going to town for the winter and 
we’ll have to get somebody else.” 

“I heard that Mrs. Laurie Jamieson wanted it,” said 
Anne. “The Jamiesons have come to church very 
regularly since they moved to the Glen from Low- 
bridge.” 


MORE GOSSIP 


159 

‘‘New brooms!” said Miss Cornelia dubiously. 
“Wait till they’ve gone regularly for a year.” 

“You cannot depend on Mrs. Jamieson a bit, Mrs. 
Dr. dear,” said Susan solemnly. “She died once and 
when they were measuring her for her coffin, after 
laying her out just beautiful, did she not go and come 
back to life! Now, Mrs. Dr. dear, you know you 
cannot depend on a woman like that.” 

“She might turn Methodist at any moment,” said 
Miss Cornelia. “They tell me they went to the Meth- 
odist Church at Lowbridge quite as often as to the 
Presbyterian. I haven’t caught them at it here yet, 
but I would not approve of taking Mrs. Jamieson into 
the Sunday School. Yet we must not offend them. 
We are losing too many people, by death or bad temper. 
Mrs. Alec Davis has left the church, no one knows 
why. She told the managers that she would never pay 
another cent to Mr. Meredith’s salary. Of course, 
most people say that the children offended her, but 
somehow I don’t think so. I tried to pump Faith, but 
all I could get out of her was that Mrs. Davis had 
come, seemingly in high good humour, to see her 
father, and had left in an awful rage, calling them all 
‘varmints !’ ” 

“Varmints, indeed!” said Susan furiously. “Does 
Mrs. Alec Davis forget that her uncle on her mother’s 
side was suspected of poisoning his wife? Not that it 
was ever proved, Mrs. Dr. dear, and it does not do 


i6o RAINBOW VALLEY 

to believe all you hear. But if I had an uncle whose 
wife died without any satisfactory reason, / would 
not go about the country calling innocent children var- 
mints.” 

‘The point is,” said Miss Cornelia, “that Mrs. Davis 
paid a large subscription, and how its loss is going to 
be made up is a problem. And if she turns the other 
Douglases against Mr. Meredith, as she will certainly 
try to do, he will just have to go.” 

“I do not think Mrs. Alec Davis is very well liked 
by the rest of the clan,” said Susan. “It is not likely 
she will be able to influence them.” 

“But those Douglases all hang together so. If 
you touch one, you touch all. We can’t do without 
them, so much is certain. They pay half the salary. 
They are not mean, whatever else may be said of them. 
Norman Douglas used to give a hundred a year long 
ago before he left.” 

“What did he leave for?” asked Anne. 

“He declared a member of the session cheated him 
in a cow deal. He hasn’t come to church for twenty 
years. His wife used to come regular while she was 
alive, poor thing, but he never would let her pay any- 
thing, except one red cent every Sunday. She felt 
dreadfully humiliated. I don’t know that he was any 
too good a husband to her, though she was never heard 
to complain. But she always had a cowed look. Nor- 
man Douglas didn’t get the woman he wanted thirty 


MORE GOSSIP i6i 

years ago and the Douglases never liked to put up with 
second best/' 

‘'Who was the woman he did want." 

“Ellen West. They weren't engaged exactly, I be- 
lieve, but they went about together for two years. And 
then they just broke off — nobody ever knew why. 
Just some silly quarrel, I suppose. And Norman went 
and married Hester Reese before his temper had time 
to cool — married her just to spite Ellen, I haven't a 
doubt. So like a man ! Hester was a nice little thing, 
but she never had much spirit and he broke what little 
she had. She was too meek for Norman. He needed 
a woman who could stand up to him. Ellen would 
have kept him in fine order and he would have liked 
her all the better for it. He despised Hester, that is 
the truth, just because she always gave in to him. I 
used to hear him say many a time, long ago when he 
was a young fellow, ‘Give me a spunky woman — 
spunk for me every time.' And then he went and mar- 
ried a girl who couldn't say bo to a goose — man-like. 
That family of Reeses were just vegetables. They 
went through the motions of living, but they didn’t 
liver 

“Russell Reese used his first wife’s wedding ring 
to marry his second," said Susan reminiscently. “That 
was too economical in my opinion, Mrs. Dr. dear. And 
his brother John has his own tombstone put up in the 
over-harbour graveyard, with everything on it but the 
date of death, and he goes and looks at it every Sun- 


i 62 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


day. Most folks would not consider that much fun, 
but it is plain he does. People do have such different 
ideas of enjoyment. As for Norman Douglas, he is 
a perfect heathen. When the last minister asked him 
why he never went to church he said ‘Too many ugly 
women there, parson — too many ugly women!’ I 
should like to go to such a man, Mrs. Dr. dear, and 
say to him solemnly, ‘There is a hell 1’ ” 

“Oh, Norman doesn’t believe there is such a place,” 
said Miss Cornelia. “I hope he’ll find out his mistake 
when he comes to die. There, Mary, you’ve knit your 
three inches and you can go and play with the children 
for half an hour.” 

Mary needed no second bidding. She flew to Rain- 
bow Valley with a heart as light as her heels, and in 
the course of conversation told Faith Meredith all 
about Mrs. Alec Davis. 

“And Mrs. Elliott says that she’ll turn all the 
Douglases against your father and then he’ll have to 
leave the Glen because his salary won’t be paid,” con 
eluded Mary. “7 don’t know what is to be done, hones 
to goodness.. If only old Norman Douglas would comt 
back to church and pay, it wouldn’t be so bad. Bui 
he won’t — and the Douglases will leave — and you all 
will have to go.” 

Faith carried a heavy heart to bed with her that 
night. The thought of leaving the Glen was unbear- 
able. Nowhere else in the world were there such 
chums as the Blythes. Her little heart had been wrung 


MORE GOSSIP 


163 

when they had left May water — she had shed many 
bitter tears when she parted with Maywater chums and 
the old manse there where her mother had lived and 
died. She could not contemplate calmly the thought 
of such another and harder wrench. She couldn't 
leave Glen St. Mary and dear Rainbow Valley and that 
delicious graveyard. 

‘^It^s awful to be a minister's family/’ groaned Faith 
into her pillow. as soon as you get fond of a 

place you are torn up by the roots. I’ll never, never, 
never marry a minister, no matter how nice he is.” 

Faith sat up in bed and looked out of the little vine- 
hung window. The night was very still, the silence 
broken only by Una’s soft breathing. Faith felt terribly 
alone in the world. She could see Glen St. Mary lying 
under the starry blue meadows of the autumn night. 
Over the valley a light shone from the girls’ room at 
Ingleside, and another from Walter’s room. Faith 
wondered if poor Walter had toothache again. Then 
Ihe sighed, with a little passing sigh of envy of Nan 
and Di. They had a mother and a settled homt— they 
were not at the mercy of people who got angry without 
kny reason and called you a varmint. Away beyond 
the Glen, amid fields that were very quiet with sleep, 
another light was burning. Faith knew it shone in 
the house where Norman Douglas lived. He was re- 
puted to sit up all hours of the night reading. Mary 
had said if he could only be induced to return to the 
church all would be well. And why not? Faith 


i 64 rainbow valley 

looked at a big, low star hanging over the tall, pointed 
spruce at the gate of the Methodist Church and had an 
inspiration. She knew what ought to be done and she, 
Faith Meredith, would do it. She would make every- 
thing right. With a sigh of satisfaction she turned 
from the lonely, dark world and cuddled down beside 
Una. 


CHAPTER XVI 
Tit for Tat 

W ITH Faith, to decide was to act. She lost no 
time in carrying out her idea. As soon as she 
came home from school the next day she left the manse 
and made her way down the Glen. Walter Blythe 
joined her as she passed the post office. 

“Tm going to Mrs. Elliott’s on an errand for 
mother,” he said. “Where are you going. Faith ?” 

“I am going somewhere on church business,” said 
Faith loftily. She did not volunteer any further in- 
formation and Walter felt rather snubbed. They 
walked on in silence for a little while. It was a warm, 
windy evening with a sweet, resinous air. Beyond the 
sand dunes were gray seas, soft and beautiful. The 
Glen brook bore down a freight of gold and crimson 
leaves, like fairy shallops. In Mr. James Reese’s 
buckwheat stubble-land, with its beautiful tones of 
red and brown, a crow parliament was being held, 
whereat solemn deliberations regarding the welfare 
of crowland were in progress. Faith cruelly broke 
up the august assembly by climbing up on the fence 
and hurling a broken rail at it. Instantly the air was 
Filed with flapping black wings and indignant caws. 

“Why did you do that?” said Walter reproachfully. 
^^Tliey were having such a good time.” 

165 


i66 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


‘‘Oh, I hate crows, said Faith airily. “They are 
so black and sly I feel sure they’re hypocrites. They 
steal little birds’ eggs out of their nests, you know. I 
saw one do it on our lawn last spring. Walter, what 
makes you so pale to-day? Did you have the tooth- 
ache again last night?” 

Walter shivered. 

“Yes — a raging one. I couldn’t sleep a wink — so 
I just paced up and down the floor and imagined I was 
an early Christian martyr being tortured at the com- 
mand of Nero. That helped ever so much for a while 
— and then I got so bad I couldn’t imagine anything.” 

“Did you cry?” asked Faith anxiously. 

“No — but I lay down on the floor and groaned,” 
admitted Walter. “Then the girls came in and Nan 
put cayenne pepper in it — and that made it worse — and 
Di made me hold a swallow of cold water in my mouth 
— and I couldn’t stand it, so they called Susan. Susan 
said it served me right for sitting up in the cold garret 
yesterday writing poetry trash. But she started up the 
kitchen fire and got me a hot water bottle and it 
stopped the toothache. As soon as I felt better I told 
Susan my poetry wasn’t trash and she wasn’t any 
judge. And she said no, thank goodness she was not 
and she did not know anything about poetry except 
tliat it was mostly a lot of lies. Now, you know,. 
Faith, that isn’t so. That is one reason why I like 
writing poetry — you can say so many things in it that 
are true in poetry but wouldn’t be true in prose. I 


TIT FOR TAT 


167 

told Susan so, but she said to stop my jawing and go 
to sleep before the water got cold, or she’d leave me to 
see if rhyming would cure toothache, and she hoped 
it would be a lesson to me.” 

'‘Why don’t you go to the dentist at Lowbridge and 
get the tooth out ?” 

Walter shivered again. 

"They want me to — but I can’t. It would hurt so.’" 

"Are you afraid of a little pain?” asked Faith con- 
temptuously. 

Walter flushed. 

"It would be a big pain. I hate being hurt. Father 
said he wouldn’t insist on my going — he’d wait until 
I’d made up my own mind to go.” 

"It wouldn’t hurt as long as the toothache,” argued 
Faith. "You’ve had five spells of toothache. If you’d 
just go and have it out there’d be no more bad nights. 
1 had a tooth out once. I yelled for a moment, but it 
was all over then — only the bleeding.” 

"The bleeding is worst of all — it’s so ugly,” cried 
Walter. "It just made me sick when Jem cut his 
foot last summer. Susan said I looked more like faint- 
ing than Jem did. But I couldn’t bear to see Jem hurt, 
either. Somebody is always getting hurt. Faith — and 
it’s awful. I just can’t hear to see things hurt. It 
makes me just want to run — and run — and run — till 
I can’t hear or see them."* 

"There’s no use making a fuss over any one getting 
hurt,” said Faith, tossing her curls. "Of course, if 


i68 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


you’re hurt yourself very bad, you have to yell — and 
blood is messy — and I don’t like seeing other people 
hurt, either. But I don’t want to run — I want to go 
to work and help them. Your father has to hurt people 
lots of times to cure them. What would they do if 
he ran away?” 

‘'I didn’t say I would run. I said I wanted to run. 
That’s a different thing. I want to help people, too. 
But oh, I wish there weren’t any ugly, dreadful things 
in the world. I wish everything was glad and beauti- 
ful.” 

‘‘Well, don’t let’s think of what isn’t,” said Faith. 
“After all, there’s lots of fun in being alive. You 
wouldn’t have toothache if you were dead, but still, 
wouldn’t you lots rather be alive than dead ? I would, 
a hundred times. Oh, here’s Dan Reese. He’s been 
down to the harbour for fish.” 

“I hate Dan Reese,” said Walter. 

“So do I. All us girls do. I’m just going to walk 
past and never take the least notice of him. You watch 
me!” 

Faith accordingly stalked past Dan with her chin 
out and an expression of scorn that bit into his soul. 
He turned and shouted after her. 

“Pig-girl! Pig-girl!! Pig-girl!!!” in a crescendo 
of insult. 

Faith walked on, seemingly oblivious. But her lip 
trembled slightly with a sense of outrage. She knew 
she was no match for Dan Reese when it came to an 


TIT FOR TAT 


169 

exchange of epithets. She wished Jem Blythe had 
been with her instead of Walter. If Dan Reese had 
dared to call her a pig-girl in Jem's hearing Jem would 
have wiped up the dust with him. But it never oc- 
curred to Faith to expect Walter to do it, or blame 
him for not doing it. Walter, she knew, never fought 
other boys. Neither did Charlie Clow of the north 
road. The strange part was that, while she despised 
Charlie for a coward, it never occurred to her to dis- 
dain Walter. It was simply that he seemed to her 
an inhabitant of a world of his own, where different 
traditions prevailed. Faith would as soon have ex- 
pected a starry-eyed young angel to pummel dirty, 
freckled Dan Reese for her as Walter Blythe. She 
would not have blamed the angel and she did not blame 
Walter Blythe. But she wished that sturdy Jem or 
Jerry had been there and Dan's insult continued to 
rankle in her soul. 

Walter was pale no longer. He had ffushed crimson 
and his beautiful eyes were clouded with shame and 
anger. He knew that he ought to have avenged Faith. 
Jem would have sailed right in and made Dan eat his 
words with bitter sauce. Ritchie Warren would have 
overwhelmed Dan with worse “names" than Dan had 
called Faith. But Walter could not — simply could not 
— “call names." He knew he would get the worst of 
it. He could never conceive or utter the vulgar, ribald 
insults of which Dan Reese had unlimited command. 
And as for the trial by fist, Walter couldn't fight. He 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


170 

hated the idea. It was rough and painful — and, worst 
of all, it was ugly. He never could understand Jem’s 
exultation in an occasional conflict. But he wished 
he could fight Dan Reese. He was horribly ashamed 
because Faith Meredith had been insulted in his pres- 
ence and he had not tried to punish her insulter. He 
felt sure she must despise him. She had not even 
spoken to him since Dan had called her pig-girl. He 
was glad when they came to the parting of the ways. 

Faith, too, was relieved, though for a different rea- 
son. She wanted to be alone because she suddenly felt 
rather nervous about her errand. Impulse had cooled, 
especially since Dan had bruised her self-respect. She 
must go through with it, but she no longer had enthu- 
siasm to sustain her. She was going to see Norman 
Douglas and ask him to come back to church, and she 
began to be afraid of him. What had seemed so easy 
and simple up at the Glen seemed very different down 
here. She had heard a good deal about Norman 
Douglas, and she knew that even the biggest boys in 
school were afraid of him. Suppose he called her 
something nasty — she had heard he was given to that. 
Faith could not endure being called names — they sub- 
dued her far more quickly than a physical blow. But 
she would go on — Faith Meredith always went on. 
If she did not her father might have to leave the Glen. 

At the end of the long lane Faith came to the house 
— a big, old-fashioned one with a row of soldierly 
Lombardies marching past it. On the back veranda 


TIT FOR TAT 


171 

Norman Douglas himself was sitting, reading a news- 
paper. His big dog was beside him. Behind, in the 
kitchen, where his housekeeper, Mrs. Wilson, was get- 
ting supper, there was a clatter of dishes — an angry 
clatter, for Norman Douglas had just had a quarrel 
with Mrs. Wilson, and both were in a very bad temper 
over it. Consequently, when Faith stepped on the 
veranda and Norman Douglas lowered his newspaper 
she found herself looking into the choleric eyes of an 
irritated man. 

Norman Douglas was rather a fine looking person- 
age in his way. He had a sweep of long red beard 
over his broad chest and a mane of red hair, ungrizzled 
by the years, on his massive head. His high, white 
forehead was unwrinkled and his blue eyes could flash 
still with all the fire of his tempestuous youth. He 
could be very amiable when he liked, and he could be 
very terrible. Poor Faith, so anxiously bent on re- 
trieving the situation in regard to the church, had 
caught him in one of his terrible moods. 

He did not know who she was and he gazed at her 
with disfavour. Norman Douglas liked girls of spirit 
and flame and laughter. At this moment Faith was 
very pale. She was of the type to which colour means 
everything. Lacking her crimson cheeks she seemed 
meek and even insignificant. She looked apologetic 
and afraid, and the bully in Norman Douglas’ heart 
stirred. 

‘‘Who the dickens are you? And what do you want 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


172 

here?'' he demanded In his great resounding voice, 
with a fierce scowl. 

For once in her life Faith had nothing to say. She 
had never supposed Norman Douglas was like this. 
She was paralyzed with terror of him. He saw it 
and it made him worse. 

“What's the matter with you?" he boomed. “You 
look as if you wanted to say something and was scared 
to say it. What's troubling you? Confound it, speak 
up, can't you?" 

No. Faith could not speak up. No words would 
come. But her lips began to tremble. 

“For heaven's sake, don't cry," shouted Norman. 
“I can't stand snivelling. If you've anything to say, 
say it and have done. Great Kitty, is the girl possessed 
of a dumb spirit? Don’t look at me like that — I’m 
human — I haven’t got a tail ! Who are you — who are 
you, I say?" 

Norman’s voice could have been heard at the har- 
bour. Operations in the kitchen were suspended. Mrs. 
Wilson was listening open-eared and eyed. Norman 
put his huge brown hands on his knees and leaned 
forward, staring into Faith's pallid, shrinking face. 
He seemed to loom over her like some evil giant out 
of a fairy tale. She felt as if he would eat her up 
next thing, body and bones. 

“I — am — Faith — Meredith,” she said, in little more 
than a whisper. 

“Meredith, hey? One of the parson's youngsters. 


TIT FOR TAT 


173 

hey? Tve heard of you — Fve heard of you! Riding 
on pigs and breaking the Sabbath ! A nice lot I What 
do you want here, hey? What do you want of the 
old pagan, hey? I don’t ask favours of parsons — and 
I don’t give any. What do you want, I say ?” 

Faith wished herself a thousand miles away. She 
stammered out her thought in its naked simplicity. 

“I came — to ask you — to go to church — and pay — 
to the salary.” 

Norman glared at her. Then he burst forth again. 

‘‘You impudent young hussy — you! Who put you 
up to it, jade? Who put you up to it?” 

“Nobody,” said poor Faith. 

“That’s a lie. Don’t lie to me! Who sent you 
here? It wasn’t your father — he hasn’t the smeddum 
of a flea — but he wouldn’t send you to do what he 
dassn’t do himself. I suppose it was some of them 
confounded old maids at the Glen, was it — was it, 
hey?” 

“No — I — I just cam.e myself.” 

“Do you take me for a fool?” shouted Norman. 

“No — I thought you were a gentleman,” said Faith 
faintly, and certainly without any thought of being 
sarcastic. 

Norman bounced up. 

“Mind your own business. I don’t want to hear 
another word from you. If you wasn’t such a kid 
I’d teach you to interfere in what doesn’t concern you. 
When I want parsons or pill-dosers I’ll send for them. 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


174 

Till I do ril have no truck with them. Do you under- 
stand? Now, get out, cheese-face.^' 

Faith got out. She stumbled blindly down the steps, 
out of the yard gate and into the lane. Half way up 
the lane her daze of fear passed away and a reaction 
of tingling anger possessed her. By the time she 
reached the end of the lane she was in such a furious 
temper as she had never experienced before. Norman 
Douglas’ insults burned in her soul, kindling a scorch- 
ing flame. She shut her teeth and clenched her fists. 
Go home! Not she! She would go straight back and 
tell that old ogre just what she thought of him — she 
would show him — oh, wouldn’t she! Cheese-face, 
indeed ! 

Unhesitatingly she turned and walked back. The 
veranda was deserted and the kitchen door shut. Faith 
opened the door without knocking, and went in. Nor- 
man Douglas had just sat down at the supper table, 
but he still held his newspaper. Faith walked inflexibly 
across the room, caught the paper from his hand, flung 
it on the floor and stamped on it. Then she faced him, 
with her flashing eyes and scarlet cheeks. She was 
such a handsome young fury that Norman Douglas 
hardly recognized her. 

^'What’s brought you back?” he growled, but more 
in bewilderment than rage. 

Unquailingly she glared back into the angry eyes 
against which so few people could hold their own. 

‘T have come back to tell you exactly what I think 


TIT FOR TAT 


175 

of you,” said Faith in clear, ringing tones. “I am not 
afraid of you. You are a rude, unjust, tyrranical, dis- 
agreeable old man. Susan says you are sure to go to 
hell, and I was sorry for you, but I am not now. Your 
wife never had a new hat for ten years — no wonder 
she died. I am going to make faces at you whenever 
I see you after this. Every time I am behind you you 
will know what is happening. Father has a picture of 
the devil in a book in his study, and I mean to go home 
and write your name under it. You are an old vam- 
pire and I hope you^ll have the Scotch fiddle !” 

Faith did not know what a vampire meant any more 
than she knew what the Scotch fiddle was. She had 
heard Susan use the expressions and gathered from 
her tone that both were dire things. But Norman 
Douglas knew what the latter meant at least. He 
had listened in absolute silence to Faith's tirade. 
When she paused for breath, with a stamp of her foot, 
he suddenly burst into loud laughter. With a mighty 
slap of hand on knee he exclaimed, 

‘'I vow you’ve got spunk, after all — I like spunk. 
Come, sit down — sit down !” 

‘"I will not.” Faith’s eyes flashed still more pas- 
sionately. She thought she was being made fun of — 
treated contemptuously. She would have enjoyed an- 
other explosion of rage, but this cut deep. will 
not sit down in your house. I am going home. But 
I am glad I came back here and told you exactly what 
my opinion of you is.” 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


176 

“So am I — so am chuckled Norman. “I like 
you — you’re fine — you’re great. Such roses — such 
vim! Did I call her cheese-face? Why, she never 
smelt a cheese. Sit down. If you’d looked like that 
at the first, girl 1 So you’ll write my name under the 
devil’s picture, will you? But he’s black, girl, he’s 
black — and I’m red. It won’t do — it won’t do I And 
you hope I’ll have the Scotch fiddle, do you? Lord 
love you, girl, I had it when I was a boy. Don’t wish 
it on me again. Sit down — sit in. We’ll tak’ a cup o’ 
kindness.” 

“No, thank you,” said Faith haughtily. 

“Oh, yes, you will. Come, come now, I apologize, 
girl — I apologize. I made a fool of myself and I’m 
sorry. Man can’t say fairer. Forget and forgive. 
Shake hands, girl, — shake hands. She won’t — no, she 
won’t! But she must! Look-a-here, girl, if you’ll 
shake hands and break bread with me I’ll pay what I 
used to to the salary and I’ll go to church the first 
Sunday in every month and I’ll make Kitty Alec hold 
her jaw. I’m the only one in the clan can do it. Is it a 
bargain, girl?” 

It seemed to be a bargain. Faith found herself shak- 
ing hands with the ogre and then sitting at his board. 
Her temper was over — Faith’s tempers never lasted 
very long — but its excitement still sparkled in her eyes 
and crimsoned her cheeks. Norman Douglas looked 
at her admiringly. 

“Go, get some of your best preserves, Wilson,” 


TIT FOR TAT 


177 

he ordered, ‘‘and stop sulking, woman, stop sulking. 
What if we did have a quarrel, woman? A good 
squall clears the air and briskens things up. But no 
drizzling and fogging afterwards — no drizzling and 
fogging, woman. I can’t stand that. Temper in a 
woman but no tears for me. Here, girl, is some 
messed up meat and potatoes for you. Begin on that. 
Wilson has some fancy name for it, but I call it maca- 
naccady. Anything I can’t analyze in the eating line 
I call macanaccady and anything wet that puzzles me 
I call shallamagouslem. Wilson’s tea is shallama- 
gouslem. I swear she makes it out of burdocks. Don’t 
take any of the ungodly black liquid — here’s some milk 
for you. What did you say your name was ?” 

“Faith.” 

“No name that — no name that! I can’t stomach 
such a name. Got any other ?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Don’t like the name, don’t like it. There’s no 
smeddum to it. Besides, it makes me think of my 
Aunt Jinny. She called her three girls Faith, Hopq 
and Charity. Faith didn’t believe in anything — Hope 
was a born pessimist — and Charity was a miser. You 
ought to be called Red Rose — you look like one when 
you’re mad. /’ll call you Red Rose. And you’ve 
roped me into promising to go to church ? But only 
once a month, remember — only once a month. Come 
now, girl, will you let me off ? I used to pay a hundred 
to the salary every year and go to church. If I 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


178 

promise to pay two hundred a year will you let me off 
going to church ? Come now !’’ 

“No, no, sir,” said Faith, dimpling roguishly. “I 
want you to go to church, too.” 

“Well, a bargain is a bargain. I reckon I can stand 
it twelve times a year. What a sensation it’ll make 
the first Sunday I go ! And old Susan Baker says I’m 
going to hell, hey ? Do you believe I’ll go there — come, 
now, do you?” 

“I hope not, sir,” stammered Faith in some con- 
fusion. 

*'Why do you hope not? Come, now, why do you 
hope not? Give us a reason, girl — give us a reason.” 

“It — it must be a very — uncomfortable place, sir.” 

“Uncomfortable ? All depends on your taste in com- 
pany, girl. I’d soon get tired of angels. Fancy old 
Susan in a halo, now !” 

Faith did fancy it, and it tickled her so much that 
she had to laugh. Norman eyed her approvingly. 

“See the fun of it, hey? Oh, I like you — you’re 
great. About this church business now — can your 
father preach?” 

“He is a splendid preacher,” said loyal Faith. 

“He is, hey? I’ll see — I’ll watch out for flaws. 
He’d better be careful what he says before me. I’ll 
catch him — I’ll trip him up — I’ll keep tabs on his argu- 
ments. I’m bound to have some fun out of this church 
going business. Does he ever preach hell ?” 

“No — o — o — I don’t think so.” 


TIT FOR TAT 


179 

‘Too bad. I like sermons on that subject. You tell 
him that if he wants to keep me in good humour to 
preach a good rip-roaring sermon on hell once every 
six months — and the more brimstone the better. I like 
'em smoking. And think of all the pleasure he’d give 
the old maids, too. They'd all keep looking at old 
Norman Douglas and thinking, That's for you, you 
old reprobate. That’s what's in store for you!' I’ll 
give an extra ten dollars every time you get your 
father to preach on hell. Here’s Wilson and the jam. 
Like that, hey? It isn’t macanaccady. Taste!” 

Faith obediently swallowed the big spoonful Nor- 
man held out to her. Luckily it was good. 

“Best plum jam in the world,” said Norman, filling 
a large saucer and plumping it down before her. “Glad 
you like it. I'll give you a couple of jars to take home 
with you. There’s nothing mean about me — never 
was. The devil can’t catch me at that corner, anyhow. 
It wasn’t my fault that Hester didn’t have a new hat 
for ten years. It was her own — she pinched on hats 
to save money to give yellow fellows over in China. I 
never gave a cent to missions in my life — never will. 
Never you try to bamboozle me into that! A hundred 
a year to the salary and church once a month — but no 
spoiling good heathen to make poor Christians ! Why, 
girl, they wouldn’t be fit for heaven or hell — clean 
spoiled for either place — clean spoiled. Hey, Wilson, 
haven’t you got a smile on yet? Beats all how you 
women can sulk ! I never sulked in my life — it’s just 


i8o RAINBOW VALLEY 

one big flash and crash with me and then — pouf — the 
squall’s over and the sun is out and you could eat out 
of my hand.” 

Norman insisted on driving Faith home after supper 
and he filled the buggy up with apples, cabbages, pota- 
toes and pumpkins and jars of jam. 

‘There’s a nice little tom-pussy out in the barn. I’ll 
give you that too, if you’d like it. Say the word,” 
he said. 

“No, thank, you,” said Faith, decidedly. “I don't 
like cats, and, besides, I have a rooster.” 

“Listen to her. You can’t cuddle a rooster as you 
can a kitten. Who ever heard of petting a rooster? 
Better take little Tom. I want to find a good home 
for him.” 

“No. Aunt Martha has a cat and he would kill a 
strange kitten.” 

Norman yielded the point rather reluctantly. He 
gave Faith an exciting drive home, behind his wild 
two-year old, and when he had let her out at the 
kitchen door of the manse and dumped his cargo on 
the back veranda he drove away shouting, 

“It’s only once a month — only once a month, mind !” 

Faith Avent up to bed, feeling a little dizzy and 
breathless, as if she had just escaped from the grasp 
of a genial whirlwind. She was happy and thankful. 
No fear now that they would have to leave the Glen 
and the graveyard and Rainbow Valley. But she fell 
asleep troubled by a disagreeable subconsciousness that 


TIT FOR TAT 


i8i 

Dan Reese had called her pig-girl and that, having 
stumbled on such a congenial epithet, he would con- 
tinue to call her so whenever opportunity offered. 


CHAPTER XVII 
A Double Victory 

N orman DOUGLAS came to church the first 
Sunday in November and made all the sensa- 
tion he desired. Mr. Meredith shook hands with him 
absently on the church steps and hoped dreamily that 
Mrs. Douglas was well. 

^‘She wasn’t very well just before I buried her ten 
years ago, but I reckon she has better health now,” 
boomed Norman, to the horror and amusement of 
every one except Mr. Meredith, who was absorbed in 
wondering if he had made the last head of his sermon 
as clear as he might have, and hadn’t the least idea 
what Norman had said to him or he to Norman. 
Norman intercepted Faith at the gate. 

‘‘Kept my word, you see — kept my word. Red Rose. 
I’m free now till the first Sunday in December. Fine 
sermon, girl — fine sermon. Your father has more in 
his head than he carries on his face. But he contra- 
dicted himself once — tell him he contradicted himself. 
And tell him I want that brimstone sermon in Decem- 
ber. Great way to wind up the old year — with a taste 
of hell, you know. And what’s the matter with a nice 
tasty discourse on heaven for New Year’s? Though 
it wouldn’t be half as interesting as hell, girl — not half. 
Only I’d like to know what your father thinks about 
182 


A DOUBLE VICTORY 


183 

heaven — he can think — rarest thing in the world — a 
parson who can think. But he did contradict himself. 
Ha, ha! Here’s a question you might ask him some- 
time when he’s awake, girl. ‘Can God make a stone 
so big He couldn’t lift it Himself?’ Don’t forget now. 
I want to hear his opinion of it. I’ve stumped many a 
minister with that, girl.” 

Faith was glad to escape him and run home. Dan 
Reese, standing among the crowd of boys at the gate, 
looked at her and shaped his mouth into “pig-girl,” 
but dared not utter it aloud just there. Next day in 
school was a different matter. At noon recess Faith 
encountered Dan in the little spruce plantation behind 
the school and Dan shouted once more, 

‘"Pig-girl ! Pig-girl I Rooster-girl T 

Walter Blythe suddenly rose from a mossy cushion 
behind a little clump of firs where he had been reading. 
He was very pale, but his eyes blazed. 

“You hold your tongue, Dan Reese!” he said. 

“Oh, hello. Miss Walter,” retorted Dan, not at all 
abashed. He vaulted airily to the top of the rail fence 
and chanted insultingly, 

“Cowardy, cowardy-custard 
Stole a pot of mustard, 

Cowardy, cowardy-custard 1” 

“You are a coincidence!” said Walter scornfully, 
turning still whiter. He had only a very hazy idea 
what a coincidence was, but Dan had none at all and 
thought it must be something peculiarly (ppprobrious. 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


184 

‘Yah! Cowardy I” he yelled again. ‘Your mother 
writes lies — lies — lies! And Faith Meredith is a pig- 
girl — a — pig-girl — a pig-girl! And she’s a rooster- 
girl — a rooster-girl — a rooster-girl! Yah! Cowardy 
— cowardy — cust — ” 

Dan got no further. Walter had hurled himself 
across the intervening space and knocked Dan off the 
fence backward with one well-directed blow. Dan’s 
sudden inglorious sprawl was greeted with a burst of 
laughter and a clapping of hands from Faith. Dan 
sprang up, purple with rage, and began to climb the 
fence. But just then the school bell rang and Dan 
knew what happened to boys who were late during 
Mr. Hazard’s regime. 

“We’ll fight this out,” he howled. “Cowardy!” 

“Any time you like,” said Walter. 

“Oh, no, no, Walter,” protested Faith. “Don’t fight 
him. 1 don’t mind what he says — I wouldn’t conde- 
scend to mind the like of him/' 

“He insulted you and he insulted my mother,” said 
Walter, with the same deadly calm. “To-night after 
school, Dan.” 

“I’ve got to go right home from school to pick taters 
after the harrows, dad says,” answered Dan sulkily. 
“But to-morrow night’ll do.” 

“All right — here to-morrow night,” agreed Walter. 

“And I’ll smash your sissy- face for you,” promised 
Dan. 

Walter shuddered — not so much from fear of the 


A DOUBLE VICTORY 185 

threat from repulsion over the ugliness and vul-s 
garity of it. But he held his head high and marched 
into school. Faith followed in a conflict of emotions. 
She hated to think of Walter fighting that little sneak, 
but oh, he had been splendid ! And he was going to 
fight for her — Faith Meredith — to punish her insulter! 

I Of course he would win — such eyes spelled victory. 

Faith’s confidence in her champion had dimmed a 
little by evening, however. Walter had seemed so very 
quiet and dull the rest of the day in school. 

*‘If it were only Jem,” she sighed to Una, as they 
sat on Hezekiah Pollock’s tombstone in the graveyard. 
''He is such a fighter — he could finish Dan off in no 
time. But Walter doesn’t know much about fighting.” 

^ “I’m so afraid he’ll be hurt,” sighed Una, who hated 
fighting and couldn’t understand the subtle, secret 
exultation she divined in Faith. 

“He oughtn’t to be,” said Faith uncomfortably. 
“He’s every bit as big as Dan.” 

“But Dan’s so much older,” said Una. “Why, he’s 
nearly a year older.” 

“Dan hasn’t done much fighting when you come to 
count up,” said Faith. “I believe he’s really a coward. 
He didn’t think Walter would fight, or he wouldn’t 
have called names before him. Oh, if you could just 
have seen Walter’s face when he looked at him, Una ! 
It made me shiver — with a nice shiver. He looked 
just like Sir Galahad in that poem father read us on 
Saturday.” 


i86 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


‘"I hate the thought of them fighting and I wish it 
could be stopped,” said Una. 

*'Oh, it’s got to go on now,” cried Faith. '"It’s a 
matter of honor. Don’t you dare tell any one, Una. 
If you do I’ll never tell you secrets again!” 

“I won’t tell,” agreed Una. ‘'But I won’t stay 
to-morrow to watch the fight. I’m coming right 
home.” 

“Oh, all right. I have to be there — it would be mean 
not to, when Walter is fighting for me. I’m going to 
tie my colours on his arm — that’s the thing to do when 
he’s my knight. How lucky Mrs. Blythe gave me that 
pretty blue hair ribbon for my birthday! I’ve only 
worn it twice so it will be almost new. But I wish I 
was sure Walter would win. It will be so — so humiliate 
ing if he doesn’t.” 

Faith would have been yet more dubious if she 
could have seen her champion just then. Walter had 
gone home from school with all his righteous anger 
at a low ebb and a very nasty feeling in its place. He 
had to fight Dan Reese the next night — and he didn’t 
want to — he hated the thought of it. And he kept 
thinking of it all the time. Not for a minute could he 
get away from the thought. Would it hurt much? 
He was terribly afraid that it would hurt. And woulc| 
he be defeated and shamed? 

He could not eat any supper worth speaking of. 
Susan had made a big batch of his favourite monkey- 
faces, but he could choke only one down. Jem ate 


A DOUBLE VICTORY 187 

four, Walter wondered how he could. How could 
anybody eat? And how could they all talk gaily as 
they were doing ? There was mother, with her shining 
eyes and pink cheeks. She didn’t know her son had to 
fight next day. Would she be so gay if she knew, 
Walter wondered darkly. Jem had taken Susan’s 
picture with his new camera and the result was passed 
around the table and Susan was terribly indignant 
over it. 

'T am no beauty, Mrs. Dr. dear, and well I know it, 
and have always known it,” she said in an aggrieved 
tone, “but that I am as ugly as that picture makes me 
out I will never, no, never believe.” 

Jem laughed over this and Anne laughed again with 
him. Walter couldn’t endure it. He got up and fled 
to his room. 

“That child has got something on his mind, Mrs. 
Dr. dear,” said Susan. “He has et next to nothing. 
Do you suppose he is plotting another poem ?” 

Poor Walter was very far removed in spirit from 
the starry realms of poesy just then. He propped his 
•elbow on his open window sill and leaned his head 
drearily on his hands. 

“Come on down to the shore, Walter,” cried Jem, 
bursting in. “The boys are going to burn the sand- 
hill grass to-night. Father says we can go. Come on.” 

At any other time Walter would have been de- 
lighted. He gloried in the burning of the sand-hill 
grass. But now he flatly refused to go, and no argu- 


i88 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


merits or entreaties could move him. Disappointed 
Jem, who did not care for the long dark walk to Four 
Winds Point alone, retreated to his museum in the 
garret and buried himself in a book. He soon forgot 
his disappointment, revelling with the heroes of old 
romance, and pausing occasionally to picture himself 
a famous general, leading his troops to victory on some 
great battlefield. 

Walter sat at his window until bedtime. Di crept 
in, hoping to be told what was wrong, but Walter could 
not talk of it, even to Di. Talking of it seemed to 
give it a reality from which he shrank. It was torture 
enough to think of it. The crisp, withered leaves 
rustled on the maple trees outside his window. The 
glow of rose and flame had died out of the hollow, 
silvery sky, and the full moon was rising gloriously 
over Rainbow Valley. Afar off, a ruddy wood fire 
was painting a page of glory on the horizon beyond 
the hills. It was a sharp, clear evening when far-away 
sounds were heard distinctly. A fox was barking 
across the pond; an engine was puffing down at the 
Glen station; a blue jay was screaming madly in the 
maple grove; there was laughter over on the manse 
lawn. How could people laugh? How could foxes 
and blue jays and engines behave as if nothing were 
going to happen on the morrow ? 

“Oh, I wish it was over,” groaned Walter. 

He slept very little that night and had hard work 
choking down his porridge in the morning. Susan was 


A DOUBLE VICTORY 189 

rather lavish in her platefuls. Mr. Hazard found him 
an unsatisfactory pupil that day. Faith Meredith’s wits 
seemed to be wool-gathering, too. Dan Reese kept 
drawing surreptitious pictures of girls, with pig or 
rooster heads, on his slate and holding them up for all 
to see. The news of the coming battle had leaked out 
and most of the boys and many of the girls were in 
the spruce plantation when Dan and Walter sought it 
after school. Una had gone home, but Faith was 
there, having tied her blue ribbon around Walter’s 
arm. Walter was thankful that neither Jem nor Di 
nor Nan were among the crowd of spectators. Some- 
how they had not heard of what was in the wind and 
had gone home, too. Walter faced Dan quite undaunt- 
edly now. At the last moment all his fear had van- 
ished, but he still felt disgust at the idea of fighting. 
Dan, it was noted, was really paler under his freckles 
than Walter was. One of the older boys gave the 
word and Dan struck Walter in the face. 

Walter reeled a little. The pain of the blow tingled 
through all his sensitive frame for a moment. Then 
he felt pain no longer. Something, such as he had 
never experienced before, seemed to roll over him like 
a flood. His face flushed crimson, his eyes burned like 
flame. The scholars of Glen St. Mary school had 
never dreamed that ^‘Miss Walter” could look like that. 
He hurled himself forward and closed with Dan like 
a young wildcat. 

There were no particular rules in the fights of the 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


190 

Glen school boys. It was catch-as-catch can, and get 
your blows in anyhow. Walter fought with a savage 
fury and a joy in the struggle against which Dan could 
not hold his ground. It was all over very speedily. 
Walter had no clear consciousness of what he was 
doing until suddenly the red mist cleared from his 
sight and he found himself kneeling on the body of the 
prostrate Dan whose nose — oh, horror ! — was spouting 
blood. 

''Have you had enough ?’’ demanded Walter through 
his clenched teeth. 

Dan sulkily admitted that he had. 

‘'My mother doesn't write lies ?" 

“No.” 

“Faith Meredith isn’t a pig-girl?” 

“No.” 

“Nor a rooster-girl?” 

“No.” 

“And I’m not a coward?” 

“No.” 

Walter had intended to ask, “And you are a liar?” 
but pity intervened and he did not humiliate Dan fur- 
ther. Besides, that blood was so horrible. 

“You can go, then,” he said contemptuously. 

There was a loud clapping from the boys who were 
perched on the rail fence, but some of the girls were 
crying. They were frightened. They had seen school- 
boy fights before, but nothing like Walter as he had 
grappled with Dan. There had been something terrify- 


A DOUBLE VICTORY 


191 

ing about him. They thought he would kill Dan. 
Now that all was over they sobbed hysterically — ex- 
cept Faith, who still stood tense and crimson cheeked. 

Walter did not stay for any conqueror's meed. He 
sprang over the fence and rushed down the spruce hill 
to Rainbow Valley. He felt none of the victor's joy, 
but he felt a certain calm satisfaction in duty done and 
honour avenged — mingled with a sickish qualm when 
he thought of Dan's gory nose. It had been so ugly, 
and Walter hated ugliness. 

Also, he began to realize that he himself was some- 
what sore and battered up. His lip was cut and 
swollen and one eye felt very strange. In Rainbow 
Valley he encountered Mr. Meredith, who was coming 
home from an afternoon call on the Miss Wests. That 
reverend gentleman looked gravely at him. 

‘Tt seems to me that you have been fighting, Wal- 
ter?" 

‘‘Yes, sir," said Walter, expecting a scolding. 

“What was it about?" 

“Dan Reese said my mother wrote lies and that 
Faith was a pig-girl," answered Walter bluntly. 

'Dh — h! Then you were certainly justified, Wal- 
ter." 

“Do you think it's right to fight, sir?" asked Walter 
curiously. 

“Not always — and not often — ^but sometimes — yes, 
sometimes," said John Meredith. “When womenkind 
are insulted for instance — as in your case. My motto, 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


192 

Walter, is, don’t fight till you’re sure you ought to, and 
then put every ounce of you into it. In spite of sundry 
discolorations I infer that you came off best.” 

‘Yes. I made him take it all back.” 

“Very good — very good, indeed. I didn’t think 
you were such a fighter, Walter.” 

“I never fought before — and I didn’t want to right 
up to the last — and then,” said Walter, determined to 
make a clean breast of it, “I liked it while I was at it.” 

The Rev. John’s eyes twinkled. 

“You were — a little frightened — at first?” 

“I was a whole lot frightened,” said honest Walter. 
“But I’m not going to be frightened any more, sir. 
Being frightened of things is worse than the things 
themselves. I’m going to ask father to take me over 
to Lowbridge to-morrow to get my tooth out.” 

“Right again. ‘Fear is more pain than is the pain 
it fears.’ Do you know who wrote that, Walter? It 
was Shakespeare. Was there any feeling or emotion 
or experience of the human heart that that wonderful 
man did not know? When you go home tell your 
mother I am proud of you.” 

Walter did not tell her that, however; but he told 
her all the rest, and she sympathized with him and 
told him she was glad he had stood up for her and 
Faith, and she anointed his sore spots and rubbed 
cologne on his aching head. 

“Are all mothers as nice as you?” asked Walter, 
hugging her. “You’re worth standing up for.” 


A DOUBLE VICTORY 


193 

Miss Cornelia and Susan were in the living room 
when Anne came downstairs, and listened to the story 
with much enjoyment. Susan in particular was highly 
gratified. 

‘‘I am real glad to hear he has had a good fight, Mrs. 
Dr. dear. Perhaps it may knock that poetry nonsense 
out of him. And I never, no, never could bear that 
little viper of a Dan Reese. Will you not sit nearer 
to the fire, Mrs. Marshall Elliott? These November 
evenings are very chilly.^’ 

“Thank you, Susan, Fm not cold. I called at the 
manse before I came here and got quite warm — though 
I had to go to the kitchen to do it, for there was no 
fire anywhere else. The kitchen looked as if it had 
been stirred up with a stick, believe me, Mr. Meredith 
wasn’t home. I couldn’t find out where he was, but 
I have an idea he was up at the Wests’. Do you know, 
Anne dearie, they say he has been going there fre- 
quently all the fall and people are beginning to think 
he is going to see Rosemary.” 

“He would get a very charming wife if he married 
Rosemary,” said Anne, piling driftwood on the fire. 
“She is one of the most delightful girls I’ve ever 
known — truly one of the race of Joseph.” 

‘We — s — only she is an Episcopalian,” said Miss 
Cornelia doubtfully. ‘Df course, that is better than if 
she was a Methodist— but I do think Mr. Meredith 
could find a good enough wife in his own denomina- 
tion. However, very likely there is nothing in it. It’s 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


194 

only a month ago that I said to him, You ought to 
marry again, Mr. Meredith.’ He looked as shocked 
as if I had suggested something improper. ‘My wife 
is in her grave, Mrs. Elliott,’ he said, in that gentle, 
saintly way of his. ‘I supposed so,’ I said, ‘or I 
wouldn’t be advising you to marry again.’ Then he 
looked more shocked than ever. So I doubt if there 
is much in this Rosemary story. If a single minister 
calls twice at a house where there is a single woman 
all the gossips have it he is courting her.” 

“It seems to me — if I may presume to say so — that 
Mr. Meredith is too shy to go courting a second wife,” 
said Susan solemnly. 

“He isn't shy, believe me," retorted Miss Cornelia. 
“Absent-minded, — ^yes — ^but shy, no. And for all he 
is so abstracted and dreamy he has a very good opinion 
of himself, man-like, and when he is really awake he 
wouldn’t think it much of a chore to ask any woman 
to have him. No, the trouble is, he’s deluding himself 
into believing that his heart is buried, while all the 
time it’s beating away inside of him just like anybody 
else’s. He may have a notion of Rosemary West and 
he may not. If he has, we must make the best of it. 
She is a sweet girl and a fine housekeeper, and would 
make a good mother for those poor, neglected children. 
And,” concluded Miss Cornelia resignedly, “my own 
grandmother was an Episcopalian.” 


CHAPTER XVIII 

Mary Brings Evil Tidings 

M ary VANCE, whom Mrs. Elliott had sent up 
to the manse on an errand, came tripping down 
Rainbow Valley on her way to Ingleside where she 
was to spend the afternoon with Nan and Di as a 
Saturday treat. Nan and Di had been picking spruce 
gum with Faith and Una in the manse woods and the 
four of them were now sitting on a fallen pine by the 
brook, all, it must be admitted, chewing rather vigor- 
ously. The Ingleside twins were not allowed to chew 
spruce gum anywhere but in the seclusion of Rainbow 
Valley, but Faith and Una were quite unrestricted by 
such rules of etiquette and cheerfully chewed it every- 
where, at home and abroad, to the very proper horror 
of the Glen. Faith had been seen chewing it in church 
one day; but Jerry had realized the enormity of that, 
and had given her such an older-brotherly scolding 
that she never did it again. 

‘T was so hungry I just felt as if I had to chew 
something,” she protested. ‘‘You know well enough 
what breakfast was like, Jerry Meredith. I couldn't 
eat scorched porridge and my stomach just felt so 
queer and empty. The gum helped a lot — and I didn't 
195 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


196 

chew very hard. I didn^t make any noise and I never 
cracked the gum once.” 

‘You mustn’t chew gum in church, anyhow,” in- 
sisted Jerry. “Don’t let me catch you at it again.” 

“You chewed yourself in prayer meeting last week,” 
cried Faith. 

^^Thafs different,” said Jerry loftily. “Prayer meet- 
ing isn’t on Sunday. Besides, I sat away at th^ back 
in a dark seat and nobody saw me. You were sitting 
right up in front where every one saw you. And I 
took the gum out of my mouth for the last hymn and 
stuck it on the back of the pew in front of me. Then 
I came away and forgot it. I went back to get it next 
morning, but it was gone. I suppose Rod Warren 
swiped it. And it was a dandy chew.” 

Mary Vance walked down the Valley with her head 
held high. She had on a new blue velvet cap with a 
scarlet rosette in it, a coat of navy blue cloth and a 
little squirrel-fur muff. She was very conscious of her 
new clothes and very well pleased with herself. Her 
hair was elaborately crimped, her face was quite 
plump, her cheeks rosy, her white eyes shining. She 
did not look much like the forlorn and ragged waif 
the Merediths had found in the old Taylor barn. Una 
tried not to feel envious. Here was Mary with a new 
velvet cap, but she and Faith had to wear their shabby 
old gray tarns again this winter. Nobody ever thought 
of getting them new ones and they were afraid to ask 


MARY BRINGS EVIL TIDINGS 197 

their father for them for fear that he might be short 
of money and then he would feel badly. Mary had 
told them once that ministers were always short of 
money, and found it ‘‘awful hard” to make ends meet. 
Since then Faith and Una would have gone in rags 
rather than ask their father for anything if they could 
help it. They did not^ worry a great deal over their 
shabbiness; but it was rather trying to see Mary Vance 
coming out in such style and putting on such airs about 
it, too. The new squirrel muff was really the last 
straw. Neither Faith nor Una had ever had a muff, 
counting themselves lucky if they could compass mit- 
tens without holes in them. Aunt Martha could not 
see to darn holes and though Una tried to, she made 
sad cobbling. Somehow, they could not make their 
greeting of Mary very cordial. But Mary did not 
mind or notice that ; she was not overly sensitive. She 
vaulted lightly to a seat on the pine tree, and laid the 
offending muff on a bough. Una saw that it was 
lined with shirred red satin and had red tassels. She 
looked down at her own rather purple, chapped, little 
hands and wondered if she would, ever, ever be able to 
put them into a muff like that. 

“Give us a chew,” said Mary companionably. Nan, 
Di and Faith all produced an amber-hued knot or two 
from their pockets and passed them to Mary. Una sat 
very still. She had four lovely big knots in the pocket 
of her tight, thread-bare little jacket, but she wasn’t 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


198 

going to give one of them to Mary Vance — not one. 
Let Mary pick her own gum! People with squirrel 
muffs needn’t expect to get everything in the world. 

‘'Great day, isn’t it ?” said Mary, swinging her legs, 
the better, perhaps, to display new boots with very 
smart cloth tops. Una tucked her feet under her. 
There was a hole in the toe of one of her boots and 
both laces were much knotted. But they were the best 
she had. Oh, this Mary Vance! Why hadn’t they 
left her in the old barn? 

Una never felt badly because the Ingleside twins 
were better dressed than she and Faith were. They 
wore their pretty clothes with careless grace and never 
seemed to think about them at all. Somehow, they did 
not make other people feel shabby. But when Mary 
Vance was dressed up she seemed fairly to exude 
clothes — to walk in an atmosphere of clothes — to make 
everybody else feel and think clothes. Una, as she sat 
there in the honey-tinted sunshine of the gracious De- 
cember afternoon, was acutely and miserably conscious 
of everything she had on — the faded tarn, which was 
yet her best, the skimpy jacket she had worn for three 
winters, the holes in her skirt and her boots, the shiver- 
ing insufficiency of her poor little undergarments. Of 
course, Mary was going out for a visit and she was 
not. But even if she had been she had nothing better 
to put on and in this lay the sting. 

“Say, this is great gum. Listen to me cracking it. 
There ain’t any gum spruces down at Four Winds,” 


MARY BRINGS EVIL TIDINGS 199 

said Mary. “Sometimes I just hanker after a chew. 
Mrs. Elliott won’t let me chew gum if she sees me. 
She says it ain’t lady-like. This lady-business puzzles- 
me. I can’t get on to all its kinks. Say, Una, what’s 
the matter with you ? Cat got your tongue ?” 

“No,” said Una, who could not drag her fascinated 
eyes from that squirrel muff. Mary leaned past her,, 
picked it up and thrust it- into Una’s hands. 

“Stick your paws in that for a while,” she ordered. 
“They look sorter pinched. Ain’t that a dandy muff?' 
Mrs. Elliott give it to me last week for a birthday 
present. I’m to get the collar at Christmas. I heard 
her telling Mr. Elliott that.” 

“Mrs. Elliott is very good to you,” said Faith. 

“You bet she is. And Fm good to her, too,” re- 
torted Mary. “ I work like a nigger to make it easy 
for her and have everything just as she likes it. We 
was made for each other. ’Tisn’t every one could get 
along with her as well as I do. She’s pizen neat, but 
so am I, and so we agree fine.” 

“I told you she would never whip you.” 

“So you did. She’s never tried to lay a finger on 
me and I ain’t never told a lie to her — not one, true’s 
you live. She combs me down with her tongue some- 
times, though, but that just slips off me like water off 
a duck’s back. Say, Una, why didn’t you hang on to 
the muff?” 

Una had put it back on the bough. 

“My hands aren’t cold, thank you,” she said stiffly. 


200 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


“Well, if you're satisfied, I am. Say, old Kitty Alec 
has come back to church as meek as Moses and nobody 
knows why. But everybody is saying it was Faith 
brought Norman Douglas out. His housekeeper says 
you went there and gave him an awful tongue-lashing. 
Did you?" 

“I went and asked him to come to church," said 
Faith uncomfortably. 

“Fancy your spunk!" said Mary admiringly. “/ 
wouldn't have dared do that and I'm not so slow. Mrs. 
Wilson says the two of you jawed something scandal- 
ous, but you come off best and then he just turned 
round and like to eat you up. Say, is your father 
going to preach here to-morrow ?" 

“No. He's going to exchange with Mr. Perry from 
Charlottetown. Father went to town this morning 
and Mr. Perry is coming out to-night." 

“I thought there was something in the wind, though 
old Martha wouldn't give me any satisfaction. But I 
felt sure she wouldn't have been killing that rooster 
for nothing." 

“What rooster? What do you mean?" cried Faith, 
turning pale. 

“/ don't know what rooster. I didn't see it. When 
she took the butter Mrs. Elliott sent up she said she'd 
been out to the barn killing a rooster for dinner to-« 
morrow." 

Faith sprang down from the pine. 


MARY BRINGS EVIL TIDINGS 201 

‘‘It’s Adam — we have no other rooster — she has 
killed Adam.” 

“Now, don’t fly off the handle. Martha said the 
butcher at the Glen had no meat this week and she had 
to have something and the hens were all laying and too 
poor.” 

“If she has killed Adam — ” Faith began to run up 
the hill. 

Mary shrugged her shoulders. 

“She’ll go crazy now. She was so fond of that 
Adam. He ought to have been in the pot long ago — 
he’ll be as tough as sole leather. But I wouldn’t like 
to be in Martha’s shoes. Faith’s just white with rage. 
Una, you’d better go after her and try to peacify her.” 

Mary had gone a few steps with the Blythe girls 
when Una suddenly turned and ran after her. 

“Here’s some gum for you, Mary,” she said, with a 
little repentant catch in her voice, thrusting all her four 
knots into Mary’s hands, “and I’m glad you have such 
a pretty muff.” 

“Why, thanks,” said Mary, rather taken by surprise. 
To the Blythe girls,- after Una had gone, she said, 
“Ain’t she a queer little mite? But I’ve always said 
she had a good heart.” 


CHAPTER XIX 


Poor Adam! 

W HEN Una got home Faith was lying face 
downwards on her bed, utterly refusing to be 
comforted. Aunt Martha had killed Adam. He was 
reposing on a platter in the pantry that very minute, 
trussed and dressed, encircled by his liver and heart 
and gizzard. Aunt Martha heeded Faith’s passion of 
grief and anger not a whit. 

‘We had to have something for the strange min- 
ister’s dinner,” she said. “You’re too big a girl to 
make such a fuss over an old rooster. You knew he’d 
have to be killed sometime.” 

“I’ll tell father when he comes home what you’ve 
done,” sobbed Faith. 

“Don’t you go bothering your poor father. He has 
troubles enough. And /’m housekeeper here.” 

“Adam was mine — Mrs. Johnson gave him to me. 
You had no business to touch him,” stormed Faith. 

“Don’t you get sassy now. The rooster’s killed 
and there’s an end of it. I ain’t going to set no strange 
minister down to a dinner of cold b’iled mutton. I 
was brought up to know better than that, if I have 
come down in the world.” 

Faith would not go down to supper that night and 
202 


POOR ADAM! 


203 

she would not go to church the next morning. But 
at dinner time she went to the table, her eyes swollen 
with crying, her face sullen. 

The Rev. James Perry was a sleek, rubicund man, 
with a bristling white moustache, bushy white eye- 
brows, and a shining bald head. He was certainly not 
handsome and he was a very tiresome, pompous sort 
of person. But if he had looked like the Archangel 
Michael and talked with the tongues of men and angels 
Faith would still have utterly detested him. He carved 
Adam up dexterously, showing off his plump white 
hands and very handsome diamond ring. Also, he 
made jovial remarks all through the performance. 
Jerry and Carl giggled, and even Una smiled wanly,, 
because she thought politeness demanded it. But Faith 
only scowled darkly. The Rev. James thought her 
manners shockingly bad. Once, when he was deliver- 
ing himself of an unctuous remark to Jerry, Faith 
broke in rudely with a flat contradiction. The Rev. 
James drew his bushy eyebrows together at her. 

“Little girls should not interrupt,” he said, “and 
they should not contradict people who know far more 
than they do.” 

This put Faith in a worse temper than ever. To be 
called “little girl” as if she were no bigger than chubby 
Rilla Blythe over at Ingleside! It was insufferable. 
And how that abominable Mr. Perry did eat! He 
even picked poor Adam's bones. Neither Faith nor 
Una would touch a mouthful, and looked upon the 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


204 

boys as little better than cannibals. Faith felt that if 
that awful repast did not soon come to an end she 
would wind it up by throwing something at Mr. 
Perry’s gleaming head. Fortunately, Mr. Perry 
found Aunt Martha’s leathery apple pie too much even 
for his powers of mastication and the meal came to an 
end, after a long grace in which Mr. Perry offered up 
devout thanks for the food which a kind and beneficent 
Providence had provided for sustenance and tem- 
perate pleasure. 

*^God hadn’t a single thing to do with providing 
Adam for you,” muttered Faith rebelliously under her 
breath. 

The boys gladly made their escape to outdoors, Una 
went to help Aunt Martha with the dishes — though 
that rather grumpy old dame never welcomed her timid 
assistance — and Faith betook herself to the study 
where a cheerful wood fire was burning in the grate. 
She thought she would thereby escape from the hated 
Mr. Perry, who had announced his intention of taking 
a nap in his room during the afternoon. But scarcely 
had Faith settled herself in a corner, with a book, when 
he walked in and, standing before the fire, proceeded 
to survey the disorderly study with an air of disap- 
proval. 

'You father’s books seem to be in somewhat de- 
plorable confusion, my little girl,” he said severely. 

Faith darkled in her corner and said not a word. 
She would not talk to this — this creature. 


POOR ADAM! 


205 

“You should try to put them in order,” Mr. Perry 
went on, playing with his handsome watch chain and 
smiling patronizingly on Faith. “You are quite old 
enough to attend to such duties. My little daughter at 
home is only ten and she is already an excellent little 
housekeeper and the greatest help and comfort to her 
mother. She is a very sweet child. I wish you had 
the privilege of her acquaintance. She could help you 
in many ways. Of course, you have not had the inesti- 
mable privilege of a good mother^s care and training. 
A sad lack — a very sad lack. I have spoken more than 
once to your father in this connection and pointed out 
his duty to him faithfully, but so far with no effect. 
I trust he may awaken to a realization of his responsi- 
bility before it is too late. In the meantime, it is your 
duty and privilege to endeavour to take your sainted 
mother’s place. You might exercise a great influence 
over your brothers and your little sister — you might 
be a true mother to them. I fear that you do not think 
of these things as you should. My dear child, allow 
me to open your eyes in regard to them.” 

Mr. Perry’s oily, complacent voice trickled on. He 
was in his element. Nothing suited him better than to 
lay down the law, patronize and exhort. He had no 
idea of stopping, and he did not stop. He stood before 
the fire, his feet planted firmly on the rug, and poured 
out a flood of pompous platitudes. Faith heard not 
a word. She was really not listening to him at all. 
But she was watching his long black coat-tails with 


^o6 RAINBOW VALLEY 

impish delight growing in her brown eyes. Mr. Perry 
was standing very near the fire. His coat-tails began 
to scorch — his coat-tails began to smoke. He still 
prosed on, wrapped up in his own eloquence. The 
coat-tails smoked worse. A tiny spark flew up from 
the burning wood and alighted in the middle of one. 
It clung and caught and spread into a smouldering 
flame. Faith could restrain herself no longer and 
broke into a stifled giggle. 

Mr. Perry stopped short, angered over this imperti- 
nence. Suddenly he became conscious that a reek 
of burning cloth filled the room. He whirled round 
and saw nothing. Then he clapped his hands to his 
coat-tails and brought them around in front of him. 
There was already quite a hole in one of them — and 
this was his new suit Faith shook with helpless laugh- 
ter over his pose and expression. 

‘‘Did you see my coat-tails burning he demanded 
angrily. 

‘Yes, sir,” said Faith demurely. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded, glaring at 
her. 

“You said it wasn’t good manners to interrupt, sir,” 
said Faith, more demurely still. 

“If — if I was your father, I would give you a spank- 
ing that you would remember all your life. Miss,” said 
a very angry reverend gentleman, as he stalked out 
of the study. The coat of Mr. Meredith’s second best 
suit would not fit Mr. Perry, so he had to go to the 


POOR ADAM! 


207 

evening service with his singed coat-tail. But he did 
not walk up the aisle with his usual consciousness of 
the honour he was conferring on the building. He 
never would agree to an exchange of pulpits with Mr. 
Meredith again, and he was barely civil to the latter 
when they met for a few minutes at the station the 
next morning. But Faith felt a certain gloomy satis- 
faction. Adam was partially avenged. 


CHAPTER XX 


Faith Makes a Friend | 

N ext day in school was a hard one for Faith. | 
Mary Vance had told the tale of Adam, and all | 
the scholars, except the Blythes, thought it quite a joke. ] 
The girls told Faith, between giggles, that it was too j 
bad, and the boys wrote sardonic notes of condolence 
to her. Poor Faith went home from school feeling : 
her very soul raw and smarting within her. i 

‘T’m going over to Ingleside to have a talk with Mrs. i 
Blythe,’^ she sobbed. ''She won't laugh at me, as , 
everybody else does. Fve just got to talk to somebody 
who understands how bad I feel." 

She ran down through Rainbow Valley. Enchant- 
ment had been at work the night before. A light snow 
had fallen and the powdered firs were dreaming of a 
spring to come and a joy to be. The long hill beyond 
was richly purple with leafless beeches. The rosy 
light of sunset lay over the world like a pink kiss. Of 
all the airy, fairy places, full of weird, elfin grace. 
Rainbow Valley that winter evening was the most 
beautiful. But all its dreamlike loveliness was lost on 
poor, sore-hearted little Faith. 

By the brook she came suddenly upon Rosemary 
208 


FAITH MAKES A FRIEND 


209 

West, who was sitting on the old pine tree. She was 
on her way home from Ingleside^ where she had been 
giving the girls their music ' lesson. She had been 
lingering in Rainbow Valley quite a little time, look- 
ing across its white beauty and roaming some by-ways 
of dream. Judging from the expression of her face, 
her thoughts were pleasant ones. Perhaps the faint, 
occasional tinkle from the bells on the Tree Lovers 
brought the little lurking smile to her lips. Or per- 
haps it was occasioned by the consciousness that John 
Meredith seldom failed to spend Monday evening in 
the gray house on the white wind-swept hill. 

Into Rosemary's dreams burst Faith Meredith full 
of rebellious bitterness. Faith stopped abruptly when 
she saw Miss West. She did not know her very well 
— ^just well enough to speak to when they met. And 
she did not want to see any one just then — except Mrs. 
Blythe. She knew her eyes and nose were red and 
swollen and she hated to have a stranger know she 
had been crying. 

“Good evening. Miss West," she said uncomfort- 
ably. 

“What is the matter, Faith?" asked Rosemary 
gently. 

“Nothing,” said Faith rather shortly. 

“Oh !" Rosemary smiled. “You mean nothing that 
you can tell to outsiders, don't you ?" 

Faith looked at Miss West with sudden interest. 
Here was a person who understood things. And how 


210 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


pretty she was ! How golden her hair was under her 
plumy hat ! How pink her cheeks were over her velvet 
coat! How blue and companionable her eyes were! 
Faith felt that Miss West could be a lovely friend — if 
only she were a friend instead of a stranger! 

“I — Fm going up to tell Mrs. Blythe/^ said Faith. 
‘‘She always understands — she never laughs at us. I 
always talk things over with her. It helps.” 

“Dear girlie, Fm sorry to have to tell you that Mrs. 
Blythe isn’t home,” said Miss West, sympathetically. 
“She went to Avonlea to-day and isn’t coming back 
till the last of the week.” 

Faith’s lip quivered. 

“Then I might as well go home again,” she said 
miserably. 

“I suppose so — unless you think you could bring 
yourself to talk it oyer with me instead,” said Miss 
Rosemary gently. “It is such a help to talk things 
over. I know. I don’t suppose I can be as good at 
understanding as Mrs. Blythe — but I promise you that 
I won’t laugh.” 

“You wouldn’t laugh outside,” hesitated Faith. “But 
you might — inside.” 

“No, I wouldn’t laugh inside, either. Why should 
I? Something has hurt you — it never amuses me to 
see anybody hurt, no matter what hurts them. If you 
feel that you’d like to tell me what has hurt you I’ll 
be glad to listen. But if you think you’d rather not — 
that’s all right, too, dear.” 


211 


FAITH MAKES A FRIEND 

I Faith took another long, earnest look into Miss 
I West’s eyes. They were very serious — there was no 
I laughter in them, not even far, far back. With a little 
sigh she sat down on the old pine beside her new friend 
and told her all about Adam and his cruel fate. 

Rosemary did not laugh or feel like laughing. She 
understood and sympathized — really, she was almost 
as good as Mrs. Blythe — ^yes, quite as good. 

‘‘Mr. Perry is a minister, but he should have been a 
I butcher” said Faith bitterly. “He is so fond of carv- 
' ing things up. He enjoyed cutting poor Adam to 
i pieces. He just sliced into him as if he were any com- 
i mon rooster.” 

I “Between you and me. Faith, I don’t like Mr. Perry 
very well myself,” said Rosemary, laughing a little — 
but at Mr. Perry, not at Adam, as Faith clearly under- 
stood. “I never did like him. I went to school with 
him — ^he was a Glen boy, you know — and he was a 
most detestable little prig even then. Oh, how we girls 
used to hate holding his fat, clammy hands in the ring- 
around games. But we must remember, dear, that he 
: didn’t know that Adam had been a pet of yours. He 
thought he was just a common rooster. We must be 
just, even when we are terribly hurt.” 

“I suppose so,” admitted Faith. “But why does 
everybody seem to think it funny that I should have 
loved Adam so much. Miss West? If it had been a 
horrid old cat nobody would have thought it queer. 
When Lottie Warren’s kitten had its legs cut off by the 


212 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


binder everybody was sorry for her. She cried two 
days in school and nobody laughed at her, not even 
Dan Reese. And all her chums went to the kitten^s 
funeral and helped her bury it — only they couldn’t 
bury its poor little paws with it, because they couldn’t 
find them. It was a horrid thing to have happen, of 
course, but I don’t think it was as dreadful as seeing 
your pet eaten up. Yet everybody laughs at me.’' 

“I think it is because the name 'rooster’ seems rather 
a funny one,” said Rosemary gravely. "There is some- 
thing in it that is comical. Now, 'chicken’ is different. 
It doesn’t sound so funny to talk of loving a chicken.” 

"Adam was the dearest little chicken. Miss West. 
He was just a little golden ball. He would run up 
to me and peck out of my hand. And he was hand- 
some when he grew up, too — ^white as snow, with such 
a beautiful curving white tail, though Mary Vance 
said it was too short. He knew his name and always 
came when I called him — ^he was a very intelligent 
rooster. And Aunt Martha had no right to kill him. 
He was mine. It wasn’t fair, was it. Miss West?” 

"No, it wasn’t,” said Rosemary decidedly. "Not a 
bit fair. I remember I had a pet hen when I was a 
little girl. She was such a pretty little thing — all 
golden brown and speckly. I loved her as much as 
I ever loved any pet. She was never killed — she died 
of old age. Mother wouldn’t have her killed because 
she was my pet.” 

"If my mother had been living she wouldn’t have let 


FAITH MAKES A FRIEND 


213 

Adam be killed,” said Faith. ‘Tor that matter, father 
wouldn’t have either, if he’d been home and known of 
it. I’m sure he wouldn’t. Miss West.” 

“I’m sure, too,” said Rosemary. There was a little 
added flush on her face. She looked rather conscious 
but Faith noticed nothing. 

“Was it very wicked of me not to tell Mr. Perry his 
coat-tails were scorching?” she asked anxiously. 

“Oh, terribly wicked,” answered Rosemary, with 
dancing eyes. “But I would have been just as naughty. 
Faith — I wouldn’t have told him they were scorching 
— and I don’t believe I would ever have been a bit 
sorry for my wickedness, either.” 

“Una thought I should have told him because he 
was a minister.” 

“Dearest, if a minister doesn’t behave as a gentle- 
man we are not bound to respect his coat-tails. I know 
I would just have loved to see Jimmy Perry’s coat-tails 
burning up. It must have been fun.” 

Both laughed; but Faith ended with a bitter little 
sigh. 

“Well, anyway, Adam is dead and I am never going 
to love anything again.” 

“Don’t say that, dear. We miss so much out of life 
if we don’t love. The more we love the richer life is 
— even if it is only some little furry or feathery pet. 
Would you like a canary, Faith — a little golden bit of 
a canary? If you would I’ll give you one. We have 
two up home.” 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


214 

‘'Oh, I would like that,” cried Faith. “I love birds. 
Only — would Aunt Martha’s cat eat it? It’s so tragic 
to have your pets eaten. I don’t think I could endure 
it a second time.” 

“If you hang the cage far enough from the wall I ’ 
don’t think the cat could harm it. I’ll tell you just ; 
how to take care of it and I’ll bring it to Ingleside for | 
you the next time I come down.” i 

To herself, Rosemary was thinking, ^ 

“It will give every gossip in the Glen something to | 
talk of, but I will not care. I want to comfort this j 
poor little heart.” j 

Faith was comforted. Sympathy and understand- ) 
ing were very sweet. She and Miss Rosemary sat on j 
the old pine until the twilight crept softly down over ^ 
the white valley and the evening star shone over the j 
gray maple grove. Faith told Rosemary all her small ■! 
history and hopes, her likes and dislikes, the ins and j 
outs of life at the manse, the ups and downs of school i 
society. Finally they parted firm friends. ■. 

Mr. Meredith was, 'as usual, lost in dreams when -i 
supper began that evening, but presently a name ; 
pierced his abstraction and brought him back to reality. 1 
Faith was telling Una of her meeting with Rosemary. 

“She is just lovely, I think,” said Faith. “Just as 
nice as Mrs. Blythe — ^but different. I felt as if I > 
wanted to hug her. She did hug me — such a nice, j 
velvety hug. And she called me ‘dearest.’ It thrilled I 
me. I could tell her anything” )' 


FAITH MAKES A FRIEND 215 

“So you liked Miss West, Faith?’’ Mr. Meredith 
asked, with a rather odd intonation. 

“I love her,” cried Faith. 

“Ah!” said Mr. Meredith. “Ah!” 


CHAPTER XXI 


The Impossible Word 

J OHN MEREDITH walked meditatively through 
the clear crispness of a winter night in Rainbow 
Valley. The hills beyond glistened with the chill, 
splendid lustre of moonlight on snow. Every little fir 
tree in the long valley sang its own wild song to the 
harp of wind and frost. His children and the Blythe 
lads and lasses were coasting down the eastern slope 
and whizzing over the glassy pond. They were having 
a glorious time and their gay voices and gayer laughter 
echoed up and down the valley, dying away in elfin 
cadences among the trees. On the right the lights 
of Ingleside gleamed through the maple grove with 
the genial lure and invitation which seems always to 
glow in the beacons of a home where we know there 
is love and good-cheer and a welcome for all kin, 
whether of flesh or spirit. Mr. Meredith liked very 
well on occasion to spend an evening arguing with 
the doctor by the drift wood fire, where the famous 
china dogs of Ingleside kept ceaseless watch and ward, 
as became deities of the hearth, but to-night he did 
not look that way. Far on the western hill gleamed a 
paler but more alluring star. Mr. Meredith was on 
216 


THE IMPOSSIBLE WORD 


217 

his way to see Rosemary West, and he meant to tell 
her something which had been slowly blossoming in 
his heart since their first meeting and had sprung into 
full flower on the evening when Faith had so warmly 
voiced her admiration for Rosemary. 

He had come to realize that he had learned to care 
for Rosemary. Not as he had cared for Cecilia, of 
course. That was entirely different. That love of 
romance and dream and glamour could never, he 
thought, return. But Rosemary was beautiful and 
sweet and dear — very dear. She was the best of com- 
panions. He was happier in her company than he 
had ever expected to be again. She would be an ideal 
mistress for his home, a good mother to his children. 

During the years of his widowhood Mr. Meredith 
had received innumerable hints from brother members 
of Presbytery and from many parishioners who could 
not be suspected of any ulterior motive, as well as from 
some who could, that he ought to marry again. But 
these hints never made any impression on him. It 
was commonly thought he was never aware of them. 
But he was quite acutely aware of them. And in his 
own occasional visitations of common sense he knew 
that the common sensible thing for him to do was to 
marry. But common sense was not the strong point 
of John Meredith, and to choose out, deliberately and 
cold-bloodedly, some ''suitable'' woman, as one might 
choose a housekeeper or a business partner, was some- 
thing he was quite incapable of doing. How he hated 


2i8 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


that word “suitable.” It reminded him so strongly 
of James Perry. “A siiitzlAQ. woman of suitd^At age,” 
that unctuous brother of the cloth had said, in his far 
from subtle hint. For the moment John Meredith 
had had a perfectly unbelievable desire to rush madly 
away and propose marriage to the youngest, most 
unsuitable woman it was possible to discover. 

Mrs. Marshall Elliott was his good friend and he 
liked her. But when she had bluntly told him he 
should marry again he felt as if she had torn away 
the veil that hung before some sacred shrine of his 
innermost life, and he had been more or less afraid 
of her ever since. He knew there were women in his 
congregation “of suitable age” who would marry him 
quite readily. That fact had seeped through all his 
abstraction very early in his ministry in Glen St. Mary. 
They were good, substantial, uninteresting women, 
one or two fairly comely, the others not exactly so; 
and John Meredith would as soon have thought of 
marrying any one of them as of hanging himself. He 
had some ideals to which no seeming necessity could 
make him false. He could ask no woman to fill 
Cecilia's place in his home unless he could offer her at 
least some of the affection and homage he had given 
to his girlish bride. And where, in his limited femi- 
nine acquaintance, was such a woman to be found? 

Rosemary West had come into his life on that 
autumn evening bringing with her an atmosphere in 
which his spirit recognized native air. Across the gulf 


THE IMPOSSIBLE WORD 


219 

of strangerhood they clasped hands of friendship. He 
knew her better in that ten minutes by the hidden 
spring than he knew Emmeline Drew or Elizabeth 
Kirk or Amy Annetta Douglas in a year, or could 
know them, in a century. He had fled to her for com- 
fort when Mrs. Alec Davis had outraged his mind 
and soul and had found it. Since then he had gone 
often to the house on the hill, slipping through the 
shadowy paths of night in Rainbow Valley so astutely 
that Glen gossip could never be absolutely certain that 
he did go to see Rosemary West. Once or twice he 
had been caught in the West living room by other 
visitors; that was all the Ladies^ Aid had to go by. 
But when Elizabeth Kirk heard it she put away a secret 
hope she had allowed herself to cherish, without a 
change of expression on her kind plain face, and 
Emmeline Drew resolved that the next time she saw 
a certain old bachelor of Lowbridge she would not 
snub him as she had done at a previous meeting. Of 
course, if Rosemary West was out to catch the min- 
ister she would catch him; she looked younger than 
she was and men thought her pretty; besides, the West 
girls had money I 

“It is to be hoped that he won^t be so absent-minded 
as to propose to Ellen by mistake,” was the only 
malicious thing she allowed herself to say to a sympa- 
thetic sister Drew. Emmeline bore no further grudge 
towards Rosemary. When all was said and done, an 
unencumbered bachelor was far better than a widower 


220 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


with four children. It had been only the glamour of 
the manse that had temporarily blinded Emmeline's 
eyes to the better part. 

A sled with three shrieking occupants sped past Mr. 
Meredith to the pond. Faith's long curls streamed in 
the wind and her laug'hter rang above that of the 
others. John Meredith looked after them kindly and 
longingly. He was glad that his children had such 
chums as the Blythes — glad that they had so wise and 
gay and tender a friend as Mrs. Blythe. But they 
needed something more, and that something would be 
supplied when he brought Rosemary West as a bride 
to the old manse. There was in her a quality essen- 
tially maternal. 

It was Saturday night and he did not often go call- 
ing on Saturday night, which was supposed to be dedi- 
cated to a thoughtful revision of Sunday's sermon. 
But he had chosen this night because he had learned 
that Ellen West was going to be away and Rosemary 
would be alone. Often as he had spent pleasant eve- 
nings in the house on the hill he had never, since that 
first meeting at the spring, seen Rosemary alone. Ellen 
had always been there. 

He did not precisely object to Ellen being there. He 
liked Ellen West very much and they were the best of 
friends. Ellen had an almost masculine understanding 
and a sense of humour which his own shy, hidden 
appreciation of fun found very agreeable. He liked 
her interest in politics and world events. There was no 


THE IMPOSSIBLE WORD 221 

man in the Glen, not even excepting Dr. Blythe, who 
had a better grasp of such things. 

“I think it is just as well to be interested in things 
as long as you live,” she had said. “If you're not, it 
doesn't seem to me that there's much difference be- 
tween the quick and the dead.” 

He liked her pleasant, deep, rumbly voice; he liked 
the hearty laugh with which she always ended up some 
jolly and well-told story. She never gave him digs 
about his children as other Glen women did ; she never 
bored him with local gossip; she had no malice and 
no pettiness. She was always splendidly sincere. Mr. 
Meredith, who had picked up Miss Cornelia's way of 
classifying people, considered that Ellen belonged to 
the race of Joseph. Altogether, an admirable woman 
for a sister-in-law. Nevertheless, a man did not want 
even the most admirable of women around when he 
was proposing to another woman. And Ellen was 
always around. She did not insist on talking to Mr. 
Meredith herself all the time. She let Rosemary have 
a fair share of him. Many evenings, indeed, Ellen 
effaced herself almost totally, sitting back in the corner 
with St. George on her lap, and letting Mr. Meredith 
and Rosemary talk and sing and read books together. 
Sometimes they quite forgot her presence. But if 
their conversation or choice of duets ever betrayed 
the least tendency to what Ellen considered philander- 
ing, Ellen promptly nipped that tendency in the bud 
and blotted Rosemary out for the rest of the evening. 


222 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


But not even the grimmest of amiable dragons can 
altogether prevent a certain subtle language of eye 
and smile and eloquent silence; and so the minister's 
courtship progressed after a fashion. 

But if it was ever to reach a climax that climax 
must come when Ellen was away. And Ellen was so 
seldom away, especially in winter. She found her own 
fireside the pleasantest place in the world, she vowed. 
Gadding had no attraction for her. She was fond 
of company but she wanted it at home. Mr. Meredith 
had almost been driven to the conclusion that he must 
write to Rosemary what he wanted to say, when Ellen 
casually announced one evening that she was going 
to a silver wedding next Saturday night. She had 
been bridesmaid when the principals were married. 
Only old guests were invited, so Rosemary was not 
included. Mr. Meredith pricked up his ears a trifle 
and a gleam flashed into his dreamy dark eyes. Both 
Ellen and Rosemary saw it ; and both Ellen and Rose- 
mary felt, with a tingling shock, that Mr. Meredith 
would certainly come up the hill next Saturday 
night. 

‘‘Might as well have it over with, St. George,” Ellen 
sternly told the black cat, after Mr. Meredith had gone 
home and Rosemary had silently gone upstairs. “He 
means to ask her, St. George — Fm perfectly sure of 
that. So he might as well have his chance to do it and 
find out he can't get her, George. She’d rather like 
to take him. Saint. I know that — ^but she promised. 


THE IMPOSSIBLE WORD 


223 

and she’s got to keep her promise. I’m rather sorry 
in some ways, St. George. I don’t know of a man 
I’d sooner have for a brother-in-law if a brother-in- 
law was convenient. I haven’t a thing against him, 
Saint — not a thing except that he won’t see and can’t 
be made to see that the Kaiser is a menace to the peace 
of Europe. That’s his blind spot. But he’s good com- 
pany and I like him. A woman can say anything she 
likes to a man with a mouth like John Meredith’s and 
be sure of not being misunderstood. Such a man is 
more precious than rubies. Saint — and much rarer, 
George. But he can’t have Rosemary — and I suppose 
when he finds out he can’t have her he’ll drop us both. 
And we’ll miss him. Saint — we’ll miss him something 
scandalous, George. But she promised, and I’ll see 
that she keeps her promise !” 

Ellen’s face looked almost ugly in its lowering reso- 
lution. Upstairs Rosemary was crying into her 
pillow. 

So Mr. Meredith found his lady alone and looking 
very beautiful. Rosemary had not made any special 
toilet for the occasion ; she wanted to, but she thought 
it would be absurd to dress up for a man you meant to 
refuse. So she wore her plain dark afternoon dress 
and looked like a queen in it. Her suppressed excite- 
ment coloured her face to brilliancy, her great blue 
eyes were pools of light less placid than usual. 

She wished the interview was over. She had looked 
forward to it all day with dread. She felt quite sure 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


224 

that John Meredith cared a great deal for her after 
a fashion — and she felt just as sure that he did not 
care for her as he had cared for his first love. She 
felt that her refusal would disappoint him consider- 
ably, but she did not think it would altogether over- 
whelm him. Yet she hated to make it; hated for his 
sake and — Rosemary was quite honest with herself — 
for her own. She knew she could have loved John 
Meredith if — if it had been permissible. She knew 
that life would be a blank thing if, rejected as lover, 
he refused longer to be a friend. She knew that she 
could be very happy with him and that she could make 
him happy. But between her and happiness stood the 
prison gate of the promise she had made to Ellen years 
ago. 

Rosemary could not remember her father. He had 
died when she was only three years old. Ellen, who 
had been thirteen, remembered him, but with no special 
tenderness. He had been a stern, reserved man many 
years older than his fair, pretty wife. Five years 
later their brother of twelve died also; since his death 
the two girls had always lived alone with their mother. 
They had never mingled very freely in the social life 
of the Glen or Lowbridge, though where they went 
the wit and spirit of Ellen and the sweetness and 
beauty of Rosemary made them welcome guests. Both 
had what was called “a disappointment’’ in their girl- 
hood. The sea had not given up Rosemary’s lover; 
and Norman Douglas, then a handsome, red-haired 


THE IMPOSSIBLE WORD 


225 

young giant, noted for wild driving and noisy though 
harmless escapades, had quarrelled with Ellen and left 
her in a fit of pique. 

There were not lacking candidates for both Martin’s 
and Norman’s places, but none seemed to find favour 
in the eyes of the West girls, who drifted slowly out 
of youth and bellehood without any seeming regret. 
They were devoted to their mother, who was a chronic 
invalid. The three had a little circle of home interests 
— books and pets and flowers — which made them 
happy and contented. 

Mrs. West’s death, which occurred on Rosemary’s 
twenty-fifth birthday, was a bitter grief to them. At 
first they were intolerably lonely. Ellen, especially, 
continued to grieve and brood, her long, moody mus- 
ings broken only by fits of stormy, passionate weep- 
ing. The old Lowbridge doctor told Rosemary that 
he feared permanent melancholy or worse. 

Once, when Ellen had sat all day, refusing either 
to speak or eat, Rosemary had flung herself on her 
knees by her sister’s side. 

‘‘Oh, Ellen, you have me yet,” she said imploringly. 
“Am I nothing to you? We have always loved each 
other so.” 

“I won’t have you always,” Ellen had said, breaking 
her silence with harsh intensity. “You will marry and 
leave me. I shall be left all alone. I cannot bear the 
thought — I cannot, I would rather die.” 

“I will never marry,” said Rosemary, “never, Ellen.” 


226 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


Ellen bent forward and looked searchingly into 
Rosemary's eyes. 

'Will you promise me that solemnly?" she said. 
"Promise it on mother's Bible." 

Rosemary assented at once, quite willing to humor 
Ellen. What did it matter? She knew quite well she 
would never want to marry any one. Her love had 
gone down with Martin Crawford to the deeps of the 
sea; and without love she could not marry any one. 
So she promised readily, though Ellen made rather a 
fearsome rite of it. They clasped hands over the Bible, 
in their mother's vacant room, and both vowed to each 
other that they would never marry and would always 
live together. 

Ellen's condition improved from that hour. She 
soon regained her normal cheery poise. For ten years 
she and Rosemary lived in the old house happily, un- 
disturbed by any thought of marrying or giving in 
marriage. Their promise sat very lightly on them. 
Ellen never failed to remind her sister of it whenever 
any eligible male creature crossed their paths, but she 
had never been really alarmed until John Meredith 
came home that night with Rosemary. As for Rose- 
mary, Ellen's obsession regarding that promise had 
always been a little matter of mirth to her — until lately. 
Now, it was a merciless fetter, self-imposed but never 
to be shaken off. Because of it to-night she must turn 
her face from happiness. 

It was true that the shy, sweet, rosebud love she 


THE IMPOSSIBLE WORD 227 

had given to her boy-lover she could never give to 
another. But she knew now that she could give to 
John Meredith a love richer and more womanly. She 
knew that he touched deeps in her nature that Martin 
had never touched — that had not, perhaps, been in the 
girl of seventeen to touch. And she must send him 
away to-night — send him back to his lonely hearth and 
his empty life and ,his heart-breaking problems, be- 
cause she had promised Ellen, ten years before, on 
their mother’s Bible, that she would never marry. 

John Meredith did not immediately grasp his oppor- 
tunity. On the contrary, he talked for two good hours 
on the least lover-like of subjects. He even tried 
politics, though politics always bored Rosemary. The 
latter began to think that she had been altogether mis- 
taken, and her fears and expectations suddenly seemed 
to her grotesque. She felt flat and foolish. The glow 
went out of her face and the lustre out of her eyes. 
John Meredith had not the slightest intention of asking 
her to marry him. 

And then, quite suddenly, he rose, came across the 
room, and standing by her chair, he asked it. The 
room had grown terribly still. Even St. George ceased 
to purr. Rosemary heard her own heart beating and 
was sure John Meredith must hear it too. 

Now was the time for her to say no, gently but 
firmly. She had been ready for days with her stilted, 
regretful little formula. And now the words of it 
had completely vanished from her mind. She had to 


228 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


say no — and she suddenly found she could not say it. 

It was the impossible word. She knew now that it I 
was not that she could have loved John Meredith, but 
that she did love him. The thought of putting him , 
from her life was agony. 

She must say something; she lifted her bowed 
golden head and asked him stammeringly to give her 
a few days for — for consideration. 

John Meredith was a little surprised. He was not 
vainer than any man has a right to be, but he had 
expected that Rosemary West would say yes. He had 
been tolerably sure she cared for him. Then why this 
doubt — this hesitation? She was not a school girl to i 
be uncertain as to her own mind. He felt an ugly 
shock of disappointment and dismay. But he assented 1 
to her request with his unfailing gentle courtesy and : 
went away at once. i 

‘T will tell you in a few days,’' said Rosemary with 1 
downward eyes and burning face. j 

When the door shut behind him she went back into 1 
the room and wrung her hands. t 

i 

a 

a 


a 


CHAPTER XXII 

St. George Knows All About It 

A t midnight Ellen West was walking home from 
the Pollock silver wedding. She had stayed a 
little while after the other guests had gone to help the 
gray-haired bride wash the dishes. The distance be- 
tween the two houses was not far and the road good, 
so that Ellen was enjoying her walk back home in the 
moonlight. 

The evening had been a pleasant one. Ellen, who 
had not been to a party for years, found it very pleas- 
ant. All the guests had been members of her old set 
and there was no intrusive youth to spoil the flavour, 
for the only son of the bride and groom was far away 
at college and could not be present. Norman Douglas 
had been there and they had met socially for the first 
time in years, though she had seen him once or twice 
in church that winter. Not the least sentiment was 
awakened in Ellen’s heart by their meeting. She was 
accustomed to wonder, when she thought about it at 
all, how she could ever have fancied him or felt so 
badly over his sudden marriage. But she had rather 
liked meeting him again. She had forgotten how 
bracing and stimulating he could be. No gathering 
was ever stagnant when Norman Douglas was present. 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


230 

Everybody had been surprised when Norman came. '* 
It was well known he never went anywhere. The ] 
Pollocks had invited him because he had been one of 
the original guests, but they never thought he would ' 
come. He had taken his second cousin, Amy Annetta 
Douglas, out to supper and seemed rather attentive to 
her. But Ellen sat across the table from him and had 
a spirited argument with him — an argument during 
which all his shouting and banter could not fluster her 
and in which she came oif best, flooring Norman so 
composedly and so completely that he was silent for 
ten minutes. At the end of which time he had mut- 
tered in his ruddy beard, — “spunky as ever — spunky 
as ever’’ — and began to hector Amy Annetta, who 
giggled foolishly over his sallies where Ellen would 
have retorted bitingly. 

Ellen thought the;se things over as she walked home, : 
tasting them with reminiscent relish. The moonlit air 
sparkled with frost. The snow crisped under her feet. 
Below her lay the Glen with the white harbour beyond. : 
There was a light in the manse study. So John Mere- 
dith had gone home. Had he asked Rosemary to 
marry him? And after what fashion had she made 
her refusal known? Ellen felt that she would never 
know this, though she was quite- curious. She was 
sure that Rosemary would never tell her anything , 
about it and she would not dare to ask. She must 
just be content with the fact of the refusal. After 
all, that was the only thing that really mattered. 


231 


ST. GEORGE KNOWS ALL 

‘‘I hope he’ll have sense enough to come back once 
in a while and be friendly,” she said to herself. She 
disliked so much to be alone that thinking aloud was 
one of her devices for circumventing unwelcome soli- 
tude. “It’s awful never to have a man-body with 
some brains to talk to once in a while. And like as 
not he’ll never come near the house again. There’s 
Norman Douglas, too — I like that man, and I’d like 
to have a good rousing argument with him now and 
then. But he’d never dare come up for fear people 
would think he was courting me again — for fear /’d 
think it, too, most likely — ^though he’s more of a 
stranger to me now than John Meredith. It seems 
like a dream that we could ever have been beaus. But 
there it is — there’s only two men in the Glen I’d ever 
want to talk to — and what with gossip and this 
wretched love-making business it’s not likely I’ll ever 
see either of them again. I could,” said Ellen, address- 
ing the unmoved stars with spiteful emphasis, “I could 
have made a better world myself.” 

She paused at her gate with a sudden vague feeling 
of alarm. There was still a light in the living room 
and to and fro across the window-shades went the 
shadow of a woman walking restlessly up and down. 
What was Rosemary doing up at this hour of the 
night? And why was she striding about like a 
lunatic ? 

Ellen went softly in. As she opened the hall door 
Rosemary came out of the room. She was flushed and 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


232 

breathless. An atmosphere of stress and passion hung 
about her like a garment. 

‘Why aren’t you in bed, Rosemary?” demanded 
Ellen. 

“Come in here,” said Rosemary intensely. “I want 
to tell you something.” 

Ellen composedly removed her wraps and overshoes, 
and followed her sister into the warm, fire-lighted 
room. She stood with her hand on the table and 
waited. She was looking very handsome herself, in 
her own grim, black-browed style. The new black 
velvet dress, with its train and V-neck, which she had 
made purposely for the party, became her stately, mas- 
sive figure. She wore coiled around her neck the rich 
heavy necklace of amber beads which was a family 
heirloom. Her walk in the frosty air had stung her 
cheeks into a glowing scarlet. But her steel-blue eyes 
were as icy and unyielding as the sky of the winter 
night. She stood waiting in a silence which Rosemary 
could break only by a convulsive effoi't. 

“Ellen, Mr. Meredith was here this evening.” 

“Yes?” 

“And — and — ^lie asked me to marry him.” 

“So I expected. Of course you refused him?” 

“No.” 

“Rosemary.” Ellen clenched her hands and took 
an involuntary step forward. “Do you mean to tell 
me that you accepted him ?” 

“No— no.” 


233 


ST. GEORGE KNOWS ALL 

Ellen recovered her self-command. 

‘‘What did you do then?” 

— I asked him to give me a few days to think it 
over.” 

’^I hardly see why that was necessary,” said Ellen, 
coldly contemptuous, “when there is only the one 
answer you can make him.” , 

Rosemary held out her hands beseechingly. 

“Ellen,” she said desperately, “I love John Meredith 
— I want to be his wife. Will you set me free from 
that promise ?” 

“No,” said Ellen, merciless, because she was sick 
from fear. 

“Ellen — Ellen — ” 

“Listen,” interrupted Ellen. “I did not ask you for 
that promise. You offered it.” 

“I know — I know. But I did not think then that 
I could ever care for any one again.” 

“You offered it,” went on Ellen unmovably. “You 
promised it over our mother’s Bible. It was more than 
a promise — it was an oath. Now you want to break it.” 

“I only asked you to set me free from it, Ellen.” 

“I will not do it. A promise is a promise in my 
eyes. I will not do it. Break your promise — be for- 
sworn if you will — but it shall not be with any assent 
of mine.” 

“You are very hard on me, Ellen.” 

“Hard on you! And what of me? Have you ever 
given a thought to what my loneliness would be here 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


234 

if you left me? I could not bear it — I would go crazy. 
I cannot live alone. Haven’t I been a good sister to 
you? Have I ever opposed any wish of yours? 
Haven’t I indulged you in everything?” 

‘Yes — yes.” 

“Then why do you want to leave me for this man 
whom you hadn’t even seen a year ago?” 

“I love him, Ellen.” 

“Love! You talk like a school miss instead of a 
middle-aged woman. He doesn’t love you. He wants 
a housekeeper and a governess. You don’t love him. 
You want to be ‘Mrs.’ — you are one of those weak- 
minded women who thinks it’s a disgrace to be ranked 
as an old maid. That’s all there is to it.” 

Rosemary quivered. Ellen could not, or would not, 
understand. There was no use arguing with her. 

“So you won’t release me, Ellen?” 

“No, I won’t. And I won’t talk of it again. You 
promised and you’ve got to keep your word. That’s 
all. Go to bed. Look at the time! You’re all ro- 
mantic and worked up. To-morrow you’ll be more 
sensible. At any rate, don’t let me hear any more of 
this nonsense. Go.” 

Rosemary went without another word, pale and 
spiritless. Ellen walked stormily about the room for 
a few minutes, then paused before the chair where St. 
George had been calmly sleeping through the whole 
evening. A reluctant smile overspread her dark face. 
There had been only one time in her life — the time of 


ST. GEORGE KNOWS ALL 235 

her mother's death — when Ellen had not been able to 
temper tragedy with comedy. Even in that long ago 
bitterness, when Norman Douglas had, after a fashion, 
jilted her, she had laughed at herself quite as often as 
she had cried. 

“I expect there’ll be some sulking, St. George. Yes, 
Saint, I expect we are in for a few unpleasant foggy 
days. Well, we’ll weather them through, George. 
We’ve dealt with foolish children before now. Saint. 
Rosemary’ll sulk a while — and then she’ll get over it — 
and all will be as before, George. She promised — and 
she’s got to keep her promise. And that’s the last word 
on the subject I’ll say to you or her or any one, Saint.’^ 

But Ellen lay savagely awake till morning. 

There was no sulking, however. Rosemary was 
pale and quiet the next day, but beyond that Ellen 
could detect no difference in her. Certainly, she seemed 
to bear Ellen no grudge. It was stormy, so no mention 
was made of going to church. In the afternoon Rose- 
mary shut herself in her room and wrote a note to 
John Meredith. She could not trust herself to say no 
in person. She felt quite sure that if he suspected she 
was saying ‘‘no” reluctantly he would not take it for 
an answer, and she could not face pleading or entreaty. 
She must make him think she cared nothing at all for 
him and she could do that only by letter. She wrote 
him the stiffest, coolest little refusal imaginable. It 
was barely courteous; it certainly left no loophole of 
hope for the boldest lover — and John Meredith was 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


236 

anything but that. He shrank into himself, hurt and 
mortified, when he read Rosemary’s letter next day 
in his dusty study. But under his mortification a 
dreadful realization presently made itself felt. He 
had thought he did not love Rosemary as deeply as he 
had loved Cecilia. Now, when he had lost her, he 
knew that he did. She was everything to him — every- 
thing! And he must put her out of his life completely. 
Even friendship was impossible now. Life stretched 
before him in intolerable dreariness. He must go on — 
there was his work — his children — but the heart had 
gone out of him. He sat alone all that evening in his 
dark, cold, comfortless study with his head bowed on 
his hands. Up on the hill Rosemary had a headache 
and went early to bed, while Ellen remarked to St. 
George, purring his disdain of foolish humankind, who 
did not know that a soft cushion was the only thing 
that really mattered, 

*What would women do if headaches had never 
been invented, St. George? But never mind. Saint. 
We’ll just wink the other eye for a few weeks. I 
admit I don’t feel comfortable myself, George. I feel 
as if I had drowned a kitten. But she promised. Saint 
— and she was the one to offer it, George. Bismillah 1” 


CHAPTER XXIII 

The Good-Conduct Club 

A light rain had been falling all day — a little, 
delicate, beautiful spring rain, that somehow 
seemed to hint and whisper of mayflowers and waken- 
ing violets. The harbour and the gulf and the low- 
lying shore fields had been dim with pearl-gray mists. 
But now in the evening the rain had ceased and the 
mists had blown out to sea. Clouds sprinkled the sky 
over the harbour like little fiery roses. Beyond it the 
hills were dark against a spendthrift splendour of 
daffodil and crimson. A great silvery evening star 
was watching over the bar. A brisk, dancing, new- 
sprung wind was blowing up from Rainbow Valley, 
resinous with the odours of fir and damp mosses. It 
crooned in the old spruces around the graveyard and 
ruffled Faith’s splendid curls as she sat on Hezekiah 
Pollock’s tombstone with her arms round Mary Vance 
and Una. Carl and Jerry were sitting opposite them 
on another tombstone and all were rather full of mis- 
chief after being cooped up all day. 

‘The air just shines to-night, doesn’t it? It’s been 
washed so clean, you see,” said Faith happily. 

Mary Vance eyed her gloomily. Knowing what 
237 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


238 

she knew, or fancied she knew, Mary considered that 
Faith was far too light-hearted. Mary had something 
on her mind to say and she meant to say it before she 
went home. Mrs. Elliott had sent her up to the manse 
with some new-laid eggs, and had told her not to stay 
longer than half an hour. The half hour was nearly 
up so Mary uncurled her cramped legs from under her 
and said abruptly, 

“Never mind about the air. Just you listen to me. 
You manse young ones have just got to behave better 
than you’ve been doing this spring — ^that’s all there is 
to it. I just come up to-night a-purpose to tell you so. 
The way people are talking about you is awful.” 

“What have we been doing now?” cried Faith in 
amazement, pulling her arm away from Mary. Una’s 
lip trembled and her sensitive little soul shrank within 
her. Mary was always so brutally frank. Jerry began 
to whistle out of bravado. He meant to let Mary see 
he didn’t care for her tirades. Their behaviour was 
no business of hers anyway. What right had she to 
lecture them on their conduct ? 

“Doing now! You’re doing all the time,” retorted 
Mary. “Just as soon as the talk about one of your 
didos fades away you do something else to start it up 
again. It seems to me you haven’t any idea of how 
manse children ought to behave 1” 

“Maybe you can tell us,” said Jerry, killingly sar- 
castic. 

Sarcasm was quite thrown away on Mary. 


THE GOOD-CONDUCT CLUB 239 

‘7 can tell you what will happen if you don’t learn 
to behave yourselves. The session will ask your father 
to resign. There now, Master Jerry-know-it-all. Mrs. 
Alec Davis said so to Mrs. Elliott. I heard her. I 
always have my ears pricked up when Mrs. Alec Davis 
comes to tea. She said you were all going from bad 
to worse and that though it was only what was to be 
expected when you had nobody to bring you up, still 
the congregation couldn’t be expected to put up with 
it much longer, and something would have to be done. 
The Methodists just laugh and laugh at you, and that 
hurts the Presbyterian feelings. She says you all need 
a good dose of birch tonic. Lor’, if that would make 
folks good I oughter be a young saint. I’m not telling 
you this because I want to hurt your feelings. I’m 
sorry for you” — Mary was past mistress in the gentle 
art of condescension. ‘7 understand that you haven’t 
much chance, the way things are. But other people 
don’t make as much allowance as I do. Miss Drew 
says Carl had a frog in his pocket in Sunday School 
last Sunday and it hopped out while she was hearing 
the lesson. She says she’s going to give up the class. 
Why don’t you keep your insecks home ?” 

‘7 popped it right back in again,” cried Carl. “It 
didn’t hurt anybody — a poor little frog! And I wish 
old Jane Drew would give up our class. I hate her. 
Her own nephew had a dirty plug of tobacco in his 
pocket and offered us fellows a chew when Elder Clow 
was praying. I guess that s worse than a frog. 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


240 

“No, ’cause frogs are more unexpected-like. They 
make more of a sensation. ’Sides, he wasn’t caught 
at it. And then that praying competition you had last 
week has made a fearful scandal. Everybody is talk- 
ing about it.” 

“Why, the Blythes were in that as well as us,” cried 
Faith, indignantly. “It was Nan Blythe who sug- 
gested it in the first place. And Walter took the prize.” 

“Well, you get the credit of it any way. It wouldn’t 
have been so bad if you hadn’t had it in the graveyard.” 

“I should think a graveyard was a very good place 
to pray in,” retorted Jerry. 

“Deacon Hazard drove past when you were pray- 
ing,” said Mary, “and he saw and heard you, with your 
hands folded over your stomach, and groaning after 
every sentence. He thought you were making fun of 
him” 

“So I was,” declared unabashed Jerry. “Only I 
didn’t know he was going by, of course. That was 
just a mean accident. / wasn’t praying in real earnest 
— I knew I had no chance of winning the prize. So I 
was just getting what fun I could out of it. Walter 
Blythe can pray bully. Why, he can pray as well as 
dad.” 

“Una is the only one of us who really likes praying,” 
said Faith pensively. 

“Well, if praying scandalizes people so much we 
mustn’t do it any more,” sighed Una. 

“Shucks, you can pray all you want to, only not in 


THE GOOD-CONDUCT CLUB 241 

the graveyard— and donh make a game of it. That 
was what made it so bad — that, and having a tea-party 
on the tombstones.” 

‘We hadnh.” 

‘Well, a soap-bubble party then. You had some- 
thing. The over-harbour people swear you had a tea- 
party, but Fm willing to take your word. And you 
used this tombstone for a table.” 

“Well, Martha wouldn’t let us blow bubbles in the 
house. She was awful cross that day,” explained 
Jerry. “And this old slab made such a jolly table.” 

“Weren’t they pretty?” cried Faith, her eyes spark- 
ling over the remembrance. “They reflected the trees 
and the hills and the harbour like little fairy worlds, 
and when we shook them loose they floated away down 
to Rainbow Valley.” 

“All but one and it went over and bust up on the 
Methodist spire,” said Carl. 

“I’m glad we did it once, anyhow, before we found 
out it was wrong,” said Faith. 

“It wouldn’t have been wrong to blow them on the 
lawn,” said Mary impatiently. “Seems like I can’t 
knock any sense into your heads. You’ve been told 
often enough you shouldn’t play in the graveyard. 
The Methodists are sensitive about it.” 

“We forget,” said Faith dolefully. “And the lawn 
is so small— and so caterpillary— and so full of shrubs 
and things. We can’t be in Rainbow Valley all the 
time — and where are we to go?” 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


242 

‘"It’s the things you do in the graveyard. It wouldn’t 
matter if you just sat here and talked quiet, same as 
we’re doing now. Well, I don’t know what is going 
to come of it all, but I do know that Elder Warren is 
going to speak to your pa about it. Deacon Hazard 
is his cousin.” 

"‘I wish they wouldn’t bother father about us,” said 
Una. 

‘‘Well, people think he ought to bother himself about 
you a little more. I don’t — I understand him. He’s 
a child in some ways hisself — that’s what he is, and 
needs some one to look after him as bad as you do. 
Well, perhaps he’ll have some one before long, if all 
tales is true.” 

‘‘What do you mean?” asked Faith. 

“Haven’t you got any idea — honest?” demanded 
Mary. 

“No, no. What do you mean?” 

“Well, you are a lot of innocents, upon my word. 
Why, everybody is talking of it. Your pa goes to see 
Rosemary West. She is going to be your step-ma.” 

“I don’t believe it,” cried Una, flushing crimson. 

“Well, I dunno. I just go by what folks say. I 
don’t give it for a fact. But it would be a good thing. 
Rosemary West’d make you toe the mark if she came 
here. I’ll bet a cent, for all she’s so sweet and smiley 
on the face of her. They’re always that way till 
they’ve caught them. But you need some one to bring 


THE GOOD-CONDUCT CLUB 243 

you up. You’re disgracing your pa and I feel for him. 
J’ve always thought an awful lot of your pa ever since 
that night he talked to me so nice. I’ve never said a 
single swear word since, or told a lie. And I’d like to 
see him happy and comfortable, with his buttons on 
and his meals decent, and you young ones licked into 
shape, and that old cat of a Martha put in her proper 
place. The way she looked at the eggs I brought her 
to-night. T hope they’re fresh,’ says she. I just 
wished they was rotten. But you just mind that she 
gives you all one for breakfast, including your pa. 
Make a fuss if she doesn’t. That was what they was 
sent up for — but I don’t trust old Martha. She’s quite 
capable of feeding ’em to her cat.” 

Mary’s tongue being temporarily tired, a brief 
silence fell over the graveyard. The manse children 
did not feel like talking. They were digesting the new 
and n:::t altogether palatable ideas Mary had suggested 
to them. Jerry and Carl were somewhat startled. But, 
after all, what did it matter? And it wasn’t likely 
there was a word of truth in it. Faith, on the whole, 
was pleased. Only Una was seriously upset. She felt 
that she would like to get away and cry. 

“Will there be any stars in my crown?” sang the 
Methodist choir, beginning to practice in the Meth- 
odist church. 

“/ want just three,” said Mary, whose theological 
knowledge had increased notably since her residence 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


244 

with Mrs. Elliott. ‘‘Just three — setting up on my 
head, like a corrownet, a big one in the middle and a 
small one each side.^’ 

“Are there different sizes in souls ?” asked Carl. 

“Of course. Why, little babies must have smaller 
ones than big men. Well, it’s getting dark and I must 
scoot home. Mrs. Elliott doesn’t like me to be out 
after dark. Laws, when I lived with Mrs. Wiley the 
dark was just the same as the daylight to me. I didn’t 
mind it no more’n a gray cat. Them days seem a 
hundred years ago. Now, you mind what I’ve said 
and try to behave yourselves, for your pa’s sake, /’ll 
always back you up and defend you — you can be dead 
sure of that. Mrs. Elliott says she never saw the like 
of me for sticking up for my friends. I was real 
sassy to Mrs. Alec Davis about you and Mrs. Elliott 
combed me down for it afterguards. The fair Cornelia 
has a tongue of her own and no mistake. But she was 
pleased underneath for all, ’cause she hates old Kitty 
Alec and she’s real fond of you. I can see through 
folks.” 

Mary sailed off, excellently well pleased with her- 
self, leaving a rather depressed little group behind her. 

“Mary Vance always says something that makes us 
feel bad when she comes up,” said Una resentfully. 

“I wish we’d left her to starve in the old barn,” said 
Jerry vindictively. 

“Oh, that’s wicked, Jerry,” rebuked Una. 

“May as well have the game as the name,” retorted 


THE GOOD-CONDUCT CLUB 245 

unrepentant Jerry. ‘‘If people say we're so bad let’s 

bad.” 

‘‘But not if it hurts father,” pleaded Faith. 

Jerry squirmed uncomfortably. He adored his 
father. Through the unshaded study window they 
could see Mr. Meredith at his desk. He did not seem 
to be either reading or writing. His head was in his 
hands and there was something in his whole attitude 
that spoke of weariness and dejection. The children 
suddenly felt it. 

“I dare say somebody’s been worrying him about us 
to-day,” said Faith. “I wish we could get along with- 
out making people talk. Oh — ^Jem Blythe! How you 
scared me!” 

Jem Blythe had slipped into the graveyard and sat 
down beside the girls. He had been prowling about 
Rainbow Valley and had succeeded in finding the first 
fittle star-v/hite cluster of arbutus for his mother. The 
manse children were rather silent after his coming. 
Jem was beginning to grow away from them some- 
what this spring. He was studying for the entrance 
examination of Queen’s Academy and stayed after 
school with the older pupils for extra lessons. Also, 
his evenings were so full of work that he seldom joined 
the others in Rainbow Valley now. He seemed to be 
drifting away into grown-up land. 

“What is the matter with you all to-night?” he 
asked. “There’s no fun in you.” 

“Not much,” agreed Faith dolefully. “There 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


246 

wouldn^t be much fun in you either if you knew you 
were disgracing your father and making people talk 
about you.” 

‘‘Who's been talking about you now ?” 

“Everybody — so Mary Vance says.” And Faith 
poured out her troubles to sympathetic Jem. “You 
see,” she concluded dolefully, “we've nobody to bring 
us up. And so we get into scrapes and people think 
we're bad.” 

“Why don't you bring yourselves up?” suggested 
Jem. “I'll tell you what to do. Form a Good-Conduct 
Club and punish yourselves every time you do anything 
that's not right.” 

“That's a good idea,” said Faith, struck by it. 
“But,” she added doubtfully, “things that don't seem 
a bit of harm to us seem simply dreadful to other 
people. How can we tell? We can't be bothering 
father all the time — and he has to be away a lot, any- 
how.” 

“You could mostly tell if you stopped to think a 
thing over before doing it and ask yourselves what the 
congregation would say about it,” said Jem. “The 
trouble is you just rush into things and don't think 
them over at all. Mother says you're all too impulsive, ! 
just as she used to be. The Good-Conduct Club would ; 
help you to think, if you were fair and honest about 
punishing yourselves when you broke the rules. You'd ; 
have to punish in some way that really hurt, or it' 
wouldn't do any good.” 


THE GOOD-CONDUCT CLUB 247 

‘‘Whip each other?’' 

“Not exactly. You’d have to think up different 
ways of punishment to suit the person. You wouldn’t 
punish each other — you’d punish yourselves, I read 
all about such a club in a story-book. You try it and 
see how it works.” 

“Let’s,” said Faith; and when Jem was gone they 
agreed they would. “If things aren’t right we’ve just 
got to make them right,” said Faith, resolutely. 

“We’ve got to be fair and square, as Jem says,” said 
Jerry. “This is a club to bring ourselves up, seeing 
there’s nobody else to do it. There’s no use in having 
many rules. Let’s just have one and any of us that 
breaks it has got to be punished hard.” 

“But how/' 

“We’ll think that up as we go along. We’ll hold a 
session of the club here in the graveyard every night 
and talk over what we’ve done through the day, and 
if we think we’ve done anything that isn’t right or that 
would disgrace dad the one that does it, or is responsi- 
ble for it, must be punished. That’s the rule. We’ll 
all decide on the kind of punishment — it must be made 
to fit the crime, as Mr. Flagg says. And the one that’s 
guilty will be bound to carry it out and no shirking. 
There’s going to be fun in this,” concluded Jerry, with 
a relish. 

“You suggested the soap-bubble party,” said Faith. 

“But that was before we’d formed the club,” said 
Jerry hastily. “Everything starts from to-night.” 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


248 

‘‘But what if we can’t agree on what’s right, or what 
the punishment ought to be ? S’pose two of us thought 
one thing and two another. There ought to be five in 
a club like this.” 

“We can ask Jem Blythe to be umpire. He is the 
squarest boy in Glen St. Mary. But I guess we can 
settle our own affairs mostly. We want to keep this 
as much of a secret as we can. Don’t breathe a word 
to Mary Vance. She’d want to join and do the bring- 
ing up. 

“/ think,” said Faith, “that there’s no use in spoil- 
ing every day by dragging punishments in. Let’s have 
a punishment day.” 

“We’d better choose Saturday because there is no 
school to interfere,” suggested Una. 

“And spoil the one holiday in the week,” cried Faith. 
“Not much! No, let’s take Friday. That’s fish day, 
anyhow, and we all hate fish. We may as well have all 
the disagreeable things in one day. Then other days 
we can go ahead and have a good time.” 

“Nonsense,” said Jerry authoritatively. “Such a 
scheme wouldn’t work at all. We’ll just punish our- 
selves as we go along and keep a clear slate. Now, we 
all understand, don’t we? This is a Good-Conduct 
Club, for the purpose of bringing ourselves up. We 
agree to punish ourselves for bad conduct, and always 
to stop before we do anything, no matter what, and 
ask ourselves if it is likely to hurt dad in any way, 
and any one who shirks is to be cast out of the club 


THE GOOD-CONDUCT CLUB 249 

and never allowed to play with the rest of us in Rain- 
bow Valley again. Jem Blythe to be umpire in case 
of disputes. No more taking bugs to Sunday School, 
Carl, and no more chewing gum in public, if you 
please. Miss Faith.” 

“No more making fun of elders praying or going 
to the Methodist prayer meeting,” retorted Faith. 

“Why, it isn’t any harm to go to the Methodist 
prayer meeting,” protested Jerry in amazement. 

“Mrs. Elliott says it is. She says manse children 
have no business to go anywhere but to Presbyterian 
things.” 

“Darn it, I won’t give up going to the Methodist 
prayer meeting,” cried Jerry. “It’s ten times more 
fun than ours is.” 

“You said a naughty word,” cried Faith. ‘'Now, 
you’ve got to punish yourself.” 

“Not till it’s all down in black and white. We’re 
only talking the club over. It isn’t really formed until 
we’ve written it out and signed it. There’s got to be 
a constitution and by-laws. And you know there’s 
nothing wrong in going to a prayer meeting.” 

“But it’s not only the wrong things we’re to punish 
ourselves for, but anything that might hurt father.” 

“It won’t hurt anybody. You know Mrs. Elliott 
is cracked on the subject of Methodists. Nobody else 
makes any fuss about my going. I always behave 
myself. You ask Jem or Mrs. Blythe and see what 
they say. Fll abide by their opinion. I’m going for 


250 RAINBOW VALLEY 

the paper now and I’ll bring out the lantern and we’ll 
all sign.” 

Fifteen minutes later the document was solemnly 
signed on Hezekiah Pollock’s tombstone, on the centre 
of which stood the smoky manse lantern, while the 
children knelt around it. Mrs. Elder Clow was going 
past at the moment and next day all the Glen heard 
that the manse children had been having another pray- 
ing competition and had wound it up by chasing each 
other all over the graves with a lantern. This piece 
of embroidery was probably suggested by the fact 
that, after the signing and sealing was completed, Carl 
had taken the lantern and had walked circumspectly 
to the little hollow to examine his ant-hill. The others 
had gone quietly into the manse and to bed. 

‘‘Do you think it is true that father is going to marry 
Miss West?” Una had tremulously asked of Faith, 
after their prayers had been said. 

“I don’t know, but I’d like it,” said Faith. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t,” said Una, chokingly. “She is 
nice the way she is. But Mary Vance says it changes 
people altogether to be made stepmothers. They get 
horrid cross and mean and hateful then, and turn your 
father against you. She says they’re sure to do that. 
She never knew it to fail in a single case.” 

“I don’t believe Miss West would ever try to do 
that,” cried Faith. 

“Mary says anybody would. She knows all about 
stepmothers. Faith — she says she’s seen hundreds of 


THE GOOD-CONDUCT CLUB 25 f 

them — and you've never seen one. Oh, Mary has told 
me blood-curdling things about them. She says she 
knew of one who whipped her husband's little girls on 
their bare shoulders till they bled, and then shut them 
up in a cold, dark^ coal cellar all night. She says 
they're all aching to do things like that." 

‘'I don't believe Miss West would. You don't know 
her as well as I do, Una. Just think of that sweet 
little bird she sent me. I love it far more even than 
Adam." 

‘‘It's just being a stepmother changes them. Mary 
says they can't help it. I wouldn't mind the whippings 
so much as having father hate us." 

“You know nothing could make father hate us. 
Don't be silly, Una. I daresay there's nothing to 
worry over. Likely if we run our club right and bring 
ourselves up properly father won't think of marrying 
any one. And if he does, I know Miss West will be 
lovely to us." 

But Una had no such conviction and she cried her- 
self to sleep. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


A Charitable Impulse 

F or a fortnight things ran smoothly in the Good- 
Conduct Club. It seemed to work admirably. 
Not once was Jem Blythe called in as umpire. Not 
once did any of the manse children set the Glen gossips 
by the ears. As for their minor peccadilloes at home, 
they kept sharp tabs on each other and gamely under- 
went their self-imposed punishment — generally a 
voluntary absence from some gay Friday night frolic 
in Rainbow Valley, or a sojourn in bed on some spring 
evening when all young bones ached to be out and 
away. Faith, for whispering in Sunday School, con- 
demned herself to pass a whole day without speaking 
a single word, unless it was absolutely necessary, and 
accomplished it. It was rather unfortunate that Mr. 
Baker from over-harbour should have chosen that 
evening for calling at the manse, and that Faith should 
have happened to go to the door. Not one word did 
she reply to his genial greeting, but went silently away 
to call her father briefly. Mr. Baker was slightly 
offended and told his wife when he went home that 
that biggest Meredith girl seemed a very shy, sulky 
little thing, without manners enough to speak when she 
252 


A CHARITABLE IMPULSE 


253 

was spoken to. But nothing worse came of it, and 
generally their penances did no harm to themselves 
or anybody else. All of them were beginning to feel 
quite cocksure that, after all, it was a very easy matter 
to bring yourself up. 

“I guess people will soon see that we can behave 
ourselves properly as well as anybody,” said Faith 
jubilantly. “It isn't hard when we put our minds 
to it.” 

She and Una were sitting on the Pollock tombstone. 
It had been a cold, raw, wet day of spring storm and 
Rainbow Valley was out of the question for girls, 
though the manse and the Ingleside boys were down 
there fishing. The rain had held up, but the east wind 
blew mercilessly in from the sea, cutting to bone and 
marrow. Spring was late in spite of its early promise, 
and there was even yet a hard drift of old snow and 
ice in the northern corner of the graveyard. Lida 
Marsh, who had come up to bring the manse a mess 
of herring, slipped in through the gate, shivering. She 
belonged to the fishing village at the harbour mouth 
and her father had, for thirty years, made a practice 
of sending a mess from his first spring catch to the 
manse. He never darkened a church door; he was a 
hard drinker and a reckless man, but as long as he sent 
those herring up to the manse every spring, as his 
father had done before him, he felt comfortably sure 
that his account with the Powers That Govern was 
squared for the year. He would not have expected a 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


254 

good mackerel catch if he had not so sent the first 
fruits of the season. 

Lida was a mite of ten and looked younger, because 
she was such a small, wizened little creature. To- 
night, as she sidled boldly enough up to the manse 
girls, she looked as if she had never been warm since 
she was born. Her face was purple and her pale-blue, 
bold little eyes were red and watery. She wore a tat- 
tered print dress and a ragged woollen comforter, tied 
across her thin shoulders and under her arms. She had 
walked the three miles from the harbour mouth bare- 
footed, over a road where there was still snow and 
slush and mud. Her feet and legs were as purple as 
her face. But Lida did not mind this much. She was 
used to being cold, and she had been going barefooted 
for a month already, like all the other swarming young 
fry of the fishing village. There was no self-pity in 
her heart as she sat down on the tombstone and 
grinned cheerfully at Faith and Una. Faith and Una 
grinned cheerfully back. They knew Lida slightly, 
having met her once or twice the preceding summer 
when they had gone down the harbour with the 
Blythes. 

"‘Hello!” said Lida, “ain’t this a fierce kind of a 
night? ’Taint fit for a dog to be out, is it?” 

“Then why are you out?” asked Faith. 

“Pa made me bring you up some herring,” returned 
Lida. She shivered, coughed, and stuck out her bare 


A CHARITABLE IMPULSE 255 

feet. Lida was not thinking about herself or her feet. 
She was used to being cold and was making no bid for 
sympathy. She held her feet out instinctively to keep 
them from the wet grass around the tombstone. But 
Faith and Una were instantly swamped with a wave 
of pity for her. She looked so cold — so miserable. 

“Oh, why are you barefooted such' a cold night?” 
cried Faith. “Your feet must be almost frozen.” 

“Pretty near,” said Lida proudly. “I tell you it was 
fierce walking up that harbour road.” 

“Why didn’t you put on your shoes and stockings ?” 
asked Una. 

“Hain’t none to put on. All I had was wore out by 
the time winter was over,” said Lida indifferently. 

For a moment Faith stared in horror. This was 
terrible. Here was a little girl, almost a neighbour, 
half frozen because she had no shoes or stockings in 
this cruel spring weather. Impulsive Faith thought of 
nothing but the dreadfulness of it. In a moment she 
was pulling off her own shoes and stockings. 

“Here, take these and put them right on,” she said, 
forcing them into the hands of the astonished Lida. 
“Quick now. You’ll catch your death of cold. I’ve 
got others. Put them right on.” 

Lida, recovering her wits, snatched at the offered 
gift, with a sparkle in her dull eyes. Sure she would 
put them on, and that mighty quick, before any one 
appeared with authority to recall them. In a minute 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


256 

she had pulled the stockings over her scrawny little 
legs and slipped Faith’s shoes over her thick little 
ankles. 

‘‘Fm obliged to you,” she said, “but won’t your 
folks be cross?” 

“No — and I don’t care if they are,” said Faith. “Do 
you think I could see any one freezing to death without 
helping them if I could? It wouldn’t be right, espe- 
cially when my father’s a minister.” 

“Will you want them back? It’s awful cold down 
at the harbour mouth — long after it’s warm up here,” 
said Lida slyly. 

“No, you’re to keep them, of course. That is what 
I meant when I gave them. I have another pair of 
shoes and plenty of stockings.” 

Lida had meant to stay awhile and talk to the girls 
about many things. But now she thought she had 
better get away before somebody came and made her 
yield up her booty. So she shuffled off through the 
bitter twilight, in the noiseless, shadowy way she had 
slipped in. As soon as she was out of sight of the 
manse she sat down, took off the shoes and stockings, 
and put them in her herring basket. She had no inten- 
tion of keeping them on down that dirty harbour road. 
They were to be kept good for gala occasions. Not 
another little girl down at the harbour mouth had such 
fine black cashmere stockings and such smart, almost 
new shoes. Lida was furnished forth for the summer. 
She had no qualms in the matter. In her eyes the 


A CHARITABLE IMPULSE 


257 

manse people were quite fabulously rich, and no doubt 
those girls had slathers of shoes and stockings. Then 
Lida ran down to the Glen village and played for an 
hour with the boys before Mr. Flagg’s store, splash- 
ing about in a pool of slush with the maddest of them, 
until Mrs. Elliott came along and bade her begone 
home. 

‘T don’t think. Faith, that you should have done 
that,” said Una, a little reproachfully, after Lida had 
gone. “You’ll have to wear your good boots every day 
now, and they’ll soon scuff out.” 

“I don’t care,” cried Faith, still in the fine glow of 
having done a kindness to a fellow creature. “It isn’t 
fair that I should have two pairs of shoes and poor 
little Lida Marsh not have any. Now we both have a 
pair. You know perfectly well, Una, that father said 
in his sermon last Sunday that there was no real happi- 
ness in getting or having — only in giving. And it’s 
true. I feel far happier now than I ever did in my 
whole life before. Just think of Lida walking home 
this very minute with her poor little feet all nice and 
warm and comfy.” 

'‘‘You know you haven’t another pair of black cash- 
mqre stockings,” said Una. “Your other pair were so 
full of holes that Aunt Martha said she couldn’t darn 
them any more and she cut the legs up for stove 
dusters. You’ve nothing but those two pairs of striped 
stockings you hate so.” 

All the glow and uplift went out of Faith. Her 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


258 

gladness collapsed like a pricked balloon. She sat for 
a few dismal minutes in silence, facing the conse- 
quences of her rash act. 

“Oh, Una, I never thought of that,^’ she said dole- 
fully. “I didn’t stop to think at all.” 

The striped stockings were thick, heavy, coarse, 
ribbed stockings of blue and red which Aunt Martha 
had knit for Faith in the winter. They were undoubt- 
edly hideous. Faith loathed them as she had never 
loathed anything before. Wear them she certainly 
would not. They were still unworn in her bureau 
drawer. 

“You’ll have to wear the striped stockings after 
this,” said Una. “Just think how the boys in school 
will laugh at you. You know how they laugh at Mamie 
Warren for her striped stockings and call her barber 
pole and yours are far worse.” 

“I won’t wear them,” said Faith. “I’ll go bare- 
footed first, cold as it is.” 

“You can’t go barefooted to church to-morrow. 
Think what people would say.” 

“Then I’ll stay home.” 

“You can’t. You know very well Aunt Martha will 
make you go.” 

Faith did know this. The one thing on which Aunt 
Martha troubled herself to insist was that they must 
all go to church, rain or shine. How they were 
dressed, or if they were dressed at all, never concerned 
her. But go they must. That was how Aunt Martha 


A CHARITABLE IMPULSE 


259 

had been brought up, seventy years ago, and that was 
how she meant to bring them up. 

“Haven’t you got a pair you can lend me, Una?” 
said poor Faith piteously. 

Una shook her head. “No, you know I only have 
the one black pair. And they’re so tight I can hardly 
get them on. They wouldn’t go on you. Neither would 
my gray ones. Besides, the legs of them are all darned 
and darned.” 

“I won’t wear those striped stockings,” said Faith 
stubbornly. “The feel of them is even worse than 
the looks. They make me feel as if my legs were as 
big as barrels and they’re so scratchy” 

“Well, I don’t know what you’re going to do.” 

“If father was home I’d go and ask him to get me 
a new pair before the store closes. But he won’t be 
home till too late. I’ll ask him Monday — and I won’t 
go to church to-morrow. I’ll pretend I’m sick and 
Aunt Martha’ll have to let me stay home.” 

“That would be acting a lie. Faith,” cried Una. 
“You can't do that. You know it would be dreadful. 
What would father say if he knew? Don’t you re- 
member how he talked to us after mother died and 
told us we must always be true, no matter what else we 
failed in. He said we must never tell or act a lie — 
he said he’d trust us not to. You can't do it. Faith. 
Just wear the striped stockings. It’ll only be for once. 
Nobody will notice them in church. It isn’t like school. 


26 o 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


And your new brown dress is so long they won’t show 
much. Wasn’t it lucky Aunt Martha made it big, so 
you’d have room to grow in it, for all you hated it so 
when she finished it?” 

"‘I won’t wear those stockings,” repeated Faith. She 
uncoiled her bare, white legs from the tombstone and 
deliberately walked through the wet, cold grass to the 
bank of snow. Setting her teeth, she stepped upon it 
and stood there. 

“What are you doing?” cried Una aghast. “You’ll 
catch your death of cold. Faith Meredith.” 

“I’m trying to,” answered Faith. “I hope I’ll catch 
a fearful cold and be awful sick to-morrow. Then I 
won’t be acting a lie. I’m going to stand here as long 
as I can bear it.” 

“But, Faith, you might really die. You might get 
pneumonia. Please, Faith, don’t. Let’s go into the 
house and get something for your feet. Oh, here’s 
Jerry. I’m so thankful. Jerry, make Faith get off 
that snow. Look at her feet.” 

“Holy cats ! Faith, what are you doing?” demanded 
Jerry. “Are you crazy?” 

“No. Go away!” snapped Faith. 

“Then are you punishing yourself for something? 
It isn’t right, if you are. You’ll be sick.” 

“I want to be sick. I’m not punishing myself. Go 
away.” 

“Where’s her shoes and stockings?” asked Jerry 
of Una. 


A CHARITABLE IMPULSE 261 

‘‘She gave them to Lida Marsh/' 

“Lida Marsh? What for?" 

“Because Lida had none — and her feet were so cold. 
And now she wants to be sick so that she won’t have 
to go to church to-morrow and wear her striped 
stockings. But, Jerry, she may die." 

“Faith," said Jerry, “get off that ice bank or I’ll pull 
you off." 

“Pull away," dared Faith. 

Jerry sprang at her and caught her arms. He pulled 
one way and Faith pulled another. Una ran behind 
Faith and pushed. Faith stormed at Jerry to leave 
her alone. Jerry stormed back at her not to be a dizzy 
idiot; and Una cried. They made no end of noise and 
they were close to the road fence of the graveyard. 
Henry Warren and his wife drove by and heard and 
saw them. Very soon the Glen heard that the manse 
children had been having an awful fight in the grave- 
yard and using most improper language. Meanwhile, 
Faith had allowed herself to be pulled off the ice be- 
cause her feet were aching so sharply that she was 
ready to get off any way. They all went in amiably 
and went to bed. Faith slept like a cherub and woke in 
the morning without a trace of a cold. She felt that 
she couldn’t feign sickness and act a lie, after remem- 
being that long-ago talk with her father. But she 
was still as fully determined as ever that she would 
not wear those abominable stockings to church. 


CHAPTER XXV 


Another Scandal and Another ‘‘Explanation” 

F aith went early to Sunday School and was 
seated in the corner of her class pew before any ' 
one came. Therefore the dreadful truth did not burst 
upon any one until Faith left the class pew near the 
door to walk up to the manse pew after Sunday School. 
The church was already half filled and all who were 
sitting near the aisle saw that the minister's daughter j 
had boots on but no stockings ! ■ 

Faith's new brown dress, which Aunt Martha had \ 
made from an ancient pattern, was absurdly long for | 
her, but even so it did not meet her boot tops. Two 
good inches of bare white leg showed plainly. 

Faith and Carl sat alone in the manse pew. Jerry 
had gone into the gallery to sit with a chum and the 
Blythe girls had taken Una with them. The Meredith 
children were given to “sitting all over the church'' in 
this fashion and a great many people thought it very 
improper. The gallery especially, where irresponsible 
lads congregated and were known to whisper and sus- 
pected of chewing tobacco during service, was no 
place for a son of the manse. But Jerry hated the 
manse pew at the very top of the church, under the 
262 


I ANOTHER SCANDAL 263 

I eyes of Elder Clow and his family. He escaped from 
it whenever he could. 

i Carl, absorbed in watching a spider spinning its web 
at the window, did not notice Faith’s legs. She walked 
home with her father after church and he never noticed 
them. She got on the hated striped stockings before 
Jerry and Una arrived, so that for the time being none 
of the occupants of the manse knew what she had 
done. But nobody else in Glen St. Mary was ignorant 
of it. The few who had not seen soon heard. Noth- 
j ing else was talked of on the way home from church. 

I Mrs. Alec Davis said it was only what she expected, 
and the next thing you would see some of those young 
ones coming to church with no clothes at all on. The 
president of the Ladies’ Aid decided that she would 
bring the matter up at the next Aid meeting, and sug- 
gest that they wait in a body on the minister and pro- 
test. Miss Cornelia said that she, for her part, gave 
up. There was no use worrying over the manse fry 
any longer. Even Mrs. Dr. Blythe felt a little shocked, 
though she attributed the occurrence solely to Faith’s 
forgetfulness. Susan could not immediately begin 
knitting stockings for Faith because it was Sunday, but 
she had one set up before any one else was out of bed 
at Ingleside the next morning. 

‘‘You need not tell me anything but that it was old 
Martha’s fault, Mrs. Dr. dear,” she told Anne. “I 
suppose that poor little child had no decent stockings 
to wear. I suppose every stocking she had was in 
/ 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


264 


holes, as you know very well they generally are. And 
I think, Mrs. Dr. dear, that the Ladies' Aid would bej 
better employed in knitting some for them than in fight- 1 
ing over the new carpet for the pulpit platform. l\ 
am not a Ladies’ Aider, but I shall knit Faith two pairs j 
of stockings, out of this nice black yarn, as fast as my| 
fingers can move and that you may tie to. Never shall' 
I forget my sensations, Mrs. Dr. dear, when I saw a 
minister’s child walking up the aisle of our church with 
no stockings on. I really did not know what way to 
look.” 

‘‘And the church was just full of Methodists yester- 
day, too,” groaned Miss Cornelia, who had come up 
to the Glen to do some shopping and run into Ingleside 
to talk the affair over. “I don’t know how it is, but 
just as sure as those manse children do something 
especially awful the church is sure to be crowded with 
Methodists. I thought Mrs. Deacon Hazard’s eyes 
would drop out of her head. When she came out of 
church she said, ‘Well, that exhibition was no more i 
than decent. I do pity the Presbyterians.’ And we 
just had to take it. There was nothing one could say.” 

“There was something I could have said, Mrs. Dr. 
dear, if I had heard her,” said Susan grimly. “I would , 
have said, for one thing, that in my opinion clean bare ; 
legs were quite as decent as holes. And I would have 
said, for another, that the Presbyterians did not feel 
greatly in need of pity seeing that they had a minister 
who could preach and the Methodists had not, I could 


ANOTHER SCANDAL 265 

have squelched Mrs. Deacon Hazard, Mrs. Dr. dear, 
and that you may tie to.” 

wish Mr. Meredith didn^t preach quite so well 
and looked after his family a little better,” retorted 
Miss Cornelia. “He could at least glance over his 
children before they went to church and see that they 
were quite properly clothed. Tm tired making excuses 
for him, believe m^.” 

Meanwhile, Faith^s soul was being harrowed up in 
I Rainbow Valley. Mary Vance was there and, as usual, 

I in a lecturing mood. She gave Faith to understand 
that she had disgraced herself and her father beyond 
redemption and that she, Mary Vance, was done with 
her. “Everybody” was talking, and “everybody” said 
the same thing. 

“I simply feel that I can’t associate with you any 
longer,” she concluded. 

*‘We are going to associate with her then,” cried 
Nan Blythe. Nan secretly thought Faith had done a 
rather awful thing, but she wasn’t going to let Mary 
Vance run matters in this high-handed fashion. “And 
if you are not you needn’t come any more to Rainbow 
Valley, Miss Vance.” 

Nan and Di both put their arms around Faith and 
glared defiance at Mary. The latter suddenly crumpled 
up, sat down on a stump and began to cry. 

“It ain’t that I don’t want to,” she wailed. “But if 
I keep in with Faith people’ll be saying I put her up to 
doing things^ Some are saying it now, true’s you live. 


266 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


I can't afford to have such things said of me, now that 
I’m in a respectable place and trying to be a lady. And 
I never went bare-legged to church in my toughest 
days. I’d never have thought of doing such a thing. 
But that hateful old Kitty Alec says Faith has never 
been the same girl since that time I stayed in the 
manse. She says Cornelia Elliott will live to rue the 
day she took me in. It hurts my feelings, I tell you. 
But it’s Mr. Meredith I’m really worried over.” 

'‘I think you needn’t worry about him,” said Di 
scornfully. “It isn’t likely necessary. Now, Faith 
darling, stop crying and tell us why you did it.” 

Faith explained tearfully. The Blythe girls sym- 
pathized with her, and even Mary Vance agreed that it 
was a hard position to be in. But Jerry, on whom the 
thing came like a thunderbolt, refused to be placated. 
So this was what some mysterious hints he had got in 
school that day meant! He marched Faith and Una 
home without ceremony, and the Good-Conduct Club 
held an immediate session in the graveyard to sit in 
judgment on Faith’s case. 

“I don’t see that it was any harm,” said Faith defi- 
antly. “Not much of my legs showed. It wasn’t 
wrong and it didn’t hurt anybody.” 

“It will hurt dad. You know it will. You know 
people blame him whenever we do anything queer.” 

“I didn’t think of that,” muttered Faith. 

“That’s just the trouble. You didn’t think and you 
should have thought. That’s what our Club is for — 


ANOTHER SCANDAL 


to bring us up and make us think. We promised we’d 
always stop and think before doing things. You didn’t 
and you’ve got to be punished, Faith — and real hard, 
too. You’ll wear those striped stockings to school for 
a week for punishment.” 

‘'Oh, Jerry. Won’t a day do — two days? Not a 
whole week !” 

“Yes, a whole week,” said inexorable Jerry. “It is 
fair — ask Jem Blythe if it isn’t.” 

Faith felt she would rather submit than ask Jem 
Blythe about such a matter. She was beginning to 
realize that her offence was a quite shameful one. 

“I’ll do it, then,” she muttered, a little sulkily. 

“You’re getting off easy,” said Jerry severely. “And 
no matter how we punish you it won’t help father. 
People will always think you just did it for mischief, 
and they’ll blame father for not stopping it. We can 
never explain it to everybody.” 

This aspect of the case weighed on Faith’s mind. 
Her own condemnation she could bear, but it tortured 
her that her father should be blamed. If people knew 
the true facts of the case they would not blame 
him. But how could she make them known to all the 
world? Getting up in church, as she had once done, 
and explaining the matter was out of the question. 
Faith had heard from Mary Vance how the congrega- 
tion had looked upon that performance and realized 
that she must not repeat it. Faith worried over the 
problem for half a week. Then she had an 5n-«pAr<»tion 


268 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


and promptly acted upon it. She spent that evening 
in the garret, with a lamp and an exercise book, writ- 
ing busily, with flushed cheeks and shining eyes. It 
was the very thing! How clever she was to have 
thought of it ! It would put everything right and ex- 
plain everything and yet cause no scandal. It was 
eleven o’clock when she had finished to her satisfaction 
and crept down to bed, dreadfully tired, but perfectly 
happy. 

In a few days the little weekly published in the Glen 
under the name of The Journal came out as usual, and 
the Glen had another sensation. A letter signed 'Taith 
Meredith” occupied a prominent place on the front 
page and ran as follows : — 

“To WHOM IT MAY CONCERN : 

I want to explain to everybody how it was I came to go 
to church without stockings on, so that everybody will know 
that father was not to blame one bit for it, and the old gos- 
sips need not say he is, because it is not true. I gave my only 
pair of black stockings to Lida Marsh, because she hadn’t 
any and her poor little feet were awful cold and I was so 
sorry for her. No child ought to have to go without shoes 
and stockings in a Christian community before the snow is 
all gone, and I think the W. F. M. S. ought to have given 
her stockings. Of course, I know they are sending things 
to the little heathen children, and that is all right and a kind 
thing to do. But the little heathen children have lots more 
warm weather thah we have, and I think the women of our 
church ought to look after Lida and not leave it all to me. 
When I gave her my stockings I forgot they were the only 
black pair I had without holes, but I am glad I did give them 
to her, because my conscience would have been uncom- 


ANOTHER SCANDAL 


269 

fortable if I hadn’t. When she had gone away, looking so 
proud and happy, the poor little thing, I remembered that 
all I had to wear were the horrid red and blue things Aunt 
Martha knit last winter for me out of some yarn that Mrs. 
Joseph Burr of Upper Glen sent us. It was dreadfully 
coarse yarn and all knots, and I never saw any of Mrs. 
Burr’s own children wearing things made of such yarn. But 
Mary Vance says Mrs. Burr gives the minister stuff that she 
can’t use or eat herself, and thinks it ought to go as part 
of the salary her husband signed to pay, but never does. 

I just couldn’t bear to wear those hateful stockings. They 
were so ugly and rough and felt so scratchy. Everybody 
would have made fun of me. I thought at first I’d pretend 
I was sick a-*d not go to church next day, but I decided I 
couldn’t do that, because it would be acting a lie, and father 
told us after mother died that was something we must never, 
never do. It is just as bad to act a lie as to tell one, though 
I know some people, right here in the Glen, who act them, 
and never seem to feel a bit bad about it. I will not men- 
tion any names, but I know who they are and so does father. 

Then I tried my best to catch cold and really be sick by 
standing on the snowbank in the Methodist graveyard with 
my bare feet until Jerry pulled me off. But it didn’t hurt 
me a bit and so I couldn’t get out of going to church. So 
I just decided I would put my boots on and go that way. I 
can’t see why it was so wrong and I was so careful to wash my 
legs just as clean as my face, but, anyway, father wasn’t to 
blame for it. He was in the study thinking of his sermon and 
other heavenly things, and I kept out of his way before I 
went to Sunday school. Father does not look at people’s 
legs in church, so of course he did not notice mine, but all 
the gossips did and talked about it, and that is why I am 
writing this letter to the Journal to explain. . I suppose I 
did very wrong, since everybody says so, and I am sorry 
and I am wearing those awful stockings to punish myself, 
although father bought me two nice new black pairs as soon as 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


270 

Mr. Flagg’s store opened on Monday morning. But it was 
all my fault, and if people blame father for it after they read 
this they are not Christians and so I do not mind what they 
say. 

There is another thing I want to explain about before I 
stop. Mary Vance told me that Mr. Evan Boyd is blaming 
the Lew Baxters for stealing potatoes out of his field last fall. 
They did not touch his potatoes. They are very poor, but 
they are honest. It was us did it — ^Jerry and Carl and 1. 
Una was not with us at the time. We never thought it was 
stealing. We just wanted a few potatoes to cook over a fire 
in Rainbow Valley one evening to eat with our fried trout. 
Mr. Boyd’s field was the nearest, just between the valley and 
the village, so we climbed over his fence and pulled up some 
stalks. The potatoes were awful small, because Mr. Boyd 
did not put enough fertilizer on them and we had to pull 
up a lot of stalks before we got enough, and then they were 
not much bigger than marbles. Walter and Di Blythe helped 
us eat them, but they did not come along until we had them 
cooked and did not know where we got them, so they were 
not to blame at all, only us. We didn’t mean any harm, but 
if it was stealing we are very sorry and we will pay Mr. 
Boyd for them if he will wait until we grow up. We never 
have any money now because we are not big enough to earn 
any, and Aunt Martha says it takes every cent of poor father’s 
salary, even when it is paid up regularly — and it isn’t often — 
to run this house. But Mr. Boyd must not blame the Lew 
Baxters any more, when they were quite innocent, and give 
them a bad name. 

Yours respectfully. 

Faith Meredith.” 


CHAPTER XXVI 

Miss Cornelia Gets a New Point of View 

“^^USAN, after Pm dead Pm going to come back 
to earth every time when the daffodils blow in 
this garden/’ said Anne rapturously. “Nobody may 
see me, but Pll be here. If anybody is in the garden 
at the time — I think Pll come on an evening just like 
this, but it might be just at dawn — a lovely, pale-pinky 
spiing dawn — they’ll just see the daffodils nodding 
wildly as if an extra gust of wind had blown past them, 
but it will be 7.” 

“Indeed, Mrs. Dr. dear, you will not be thinking of 
flaunting worldly things like daffies after you are 
dead,” said Susan. “And I do not believe in ghosts, 
seen or unseen.” 

“Oh, Susan, I shall not be a ghost ! That has such 
a horrible sound. I shall just be me. And I shall run 
around in the twilight, whether it is of morn or eve, 
and see all the spots I love. Do you remember how 
badly I felt when I left our little House of Dreams, 
Susan ? I thought I could never love Ingleside so well. 
But I do. I love every inch of the ground and every 
stick and stone on it.” 

“I am rather fond of the place myself,” said Susan, 
271 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


272 

who would have died if she had been removed from it, 
‘‘but we must not set our affections too much on 
earthly things, Mrs. Dr. dear. There are such things 
as fires and earthquakes. We should always be pre- 
pared. The Tom McAllisters over-harbour were 
burned out three nights ago. Some say Tom McAllis- 
ter set the house on fire himself to get the insurance. 
That may or may not be. But I advise the doctor to 
have our chimneys seen to at once. An ounce of pre- 
vention is worth a pound of cure. But I see Mrs. 
Marshall Elliott coming in at the gate, looking as if 
she had been sent for and couldn’t go.” 

“Anne, dearie, have you seen the Journal to-day?” 

Miss Cornelia’s voice was trembling, partly from 
emotion, partly from the fact that she had hurried 
up from the store too fast and lost her breath. 

Anne bent over the daffodils to hide a smile. She 
and Gilbert had laughed heartily and heartlessly over 
the front page of the Journal that day, but she knew 
that to dear Miss Cornelia it was almost a tragedy, and 
she must not wound her feelings by any display of 
levity. 

“Isn’t it dreadful? What is to be done?” asked 
Miss Cornelia despairingly. Miss Cornelia had vowed 
that she was done with worrying over the pranks of 
the manse children, but she went on worrying just the 
same. 

Anne led the way to the veranda, where Susan was 
knitting, with Shirley and Rilla conning their prim.ers 


MISS CORNELIA’S NEW VIEW 273 

on either side. Susan was already on her second pair 
of stockings for Faith. Susan never worried over 
poor humanity. She did what in her lay for its better- 
ment and serenely left the rest to the Higher Powers. 

‘'Cornelia Elliott thinks she was born to run this 
world, Mrs. Dr. dear,” she had once said to Anne, “and 
so she is always in a stew over something. I have 
never thought I was, and so I go calmly along. Not 
but what it has sometimes occurred to me that things 
might be run a little better than they are. But it is 
not for us poor worms of the dust to nourish such 
thoughts. They only make us uncomfortable and do 
not get us anywhere.” 

“I don’t see that anything can be done — now — ” said 
Anne, pulling out a nice, cushiony chair for Miss 
Cornelia. “But how in the world did Mr. Vickers 
allow that letter to be printed ? Surely he should have 
known better.” 

“Why, he’s away, Anne, dearie, — he’s been away to 
New Brunswick for a week. And that young scalawag 
of a Joe Vickers is editing the Journal in his absence. 
Of course, Mr. Vickers would never have put it in, 
even if he is a Methodist, but Joe would just think it 
a good joke. As you say, I don’t suppose there is any- 
thing to be done now, only live it down. But if I 
ever get Joe Vickers cornered somewhere I’ll give him 
a talking to he won’t forget in a hurry. I wanted 
Marshall to stop our subscription to the Journal in- 
stantly, but he only laughed and said that to-day’s issue 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


274 

was the only one that had had anything readable in it 
for a year. Marshall never will take anything seri- 
ously — just like a man. Fortunately, Evan Boyd is 
like that, too. He takes it as a joke and is laughing 
all over the place about it. And he’s another Meth- 
odist ! As for Mrs. Burr of the Upper Glen, of course 
she will be furious and they will leave the church. Not 
that it will be a great loss from any point of view. The 
Methodists are quite welcome to themf^ 

‘Tt serves Mrs. Burr right,” said Susan, who had 
an old feud with the lady in question and had been 
hugely tickled over the reference to her in Faith’s let- 
ter. ''She will find that she will not be able to cheat 
the Methodist parson out of his salary with bad yarn.” 

"The worst of it is, there’s not much hope of things 
getting any better,” said Miss Cornelia gloomily. "As 
long as Mr. Meredith was going to see Rosemary West 
I did hope the manse would soon have a proper mis- 
tress. But that is all off. I suppose she wouldn’t have 
him on account of the children — at least, everybody 
seems to think so.” 

"I do not believe that he ever asked her,” said Susan, 
who could not conceive of any one refusing a minister. 

"Well, nobody knows anything about that. But one 
thing is certain, he doesn’t go there any longer. And 
Rosemary didn’t look well all the spring. I hope her 
visit to Kingsport will do her good. She’s been gone 
for a month and will stay another month, I understand. 
I can’t remember when Rosemary was away from 


MISS CORNELIA’S NEW VIEW 275 

home before. She and Ellen could never bear to be 
parted. But I understand Ellen insisted on her going 
this time. And meanwhile Ellen and Norman Douglas 
are warming up the old soup.” 

"‘Is that really so?” asked Anne, laughing. ‘‘I heard 
a rumour of it, but I hardly believed it.” 

‘‘Believe it! You may believe it all right, Anne 
dearie. Nobody is in ignorance of it. Norman Doug- 
j las never left anybody in doubt as to his intentions 
j in regard to anything. He always did his courting 
before the public. He told Marshall that he hadn’t 
thought about Ellen for years, but the first time he 
went to church last fall he saw her and fell in love 
with her all over again. He said he’d clean forgot how 
handsome she was. He hadn’t seen her for twenty 
years, if you can believe it. Of course he never went 
to church, and Ellen never went anywhere else round 
here. Oh, we all know what Norman means, but what 
Ellen means is a different matter. I shan’t take it upon 
me to predict whether it will be a match or not.” 

“He jilted her once — but it seems that does not 
count with some people, Mrs. Dr. dear,” Susan re- 
marked rather acidly. 

“He jilted her in a fit of temper and repented it all 
his life,” said Miss Cornelia. “That is different from 
a cold-blooded jilting. For my part, I never detested 
Norman as some folks do. He could never over-crow 
me. I do wonder what started him coming to church. 
I have never been able to believe Mrs. Wilson’s story 


276 RAINBOW VALLEY 

that Faith Meredith went there and bullied him into it. 
I’ve always intended to ask Faith herself, but I’ve 
never happened to think of it just when I saw her. 
What influence could she have over Norman Douglas ? 
He was in the store when I left, bellowing with laugh- 
ter over that scandalous letter. You could have heard 
him at Four Winds Point. ‘The greatest girl in the 
world,’ he was shouting. ‘She’s that full of spunk 
she’s bursting with it. And all the old grannies want 
to tame her, darn them. But they’ll never be able to 
do it — never! They might as well try to drown a 
fish. Boyd, see that you put more fertilizer on your 
potatoes next year. Ho, ho, ho 1’ And then he laughed 
till the roof shook.” 

“Mr. Douglas pays well to the salary, at least,” re- 
marked Susan. 

“Oh, Norman isn’t mean in some ways. He’d give 
a thousand without blinking a lash, and roar like a Bull 
of Bashan if he had to pay five cents too much for 
anything. Besides, he likes Mr. Meredith’s sermons, 
and Norman Douglas was always willing to shell out 
if he got his brains tickled up. There is no more 
Christianity about him than there is about a black, 
naked heathen in Africa and never will be. But he’s 
clever and well read and he judges sermons as he 
would lectures. Anyhow, it’s well he backs up Mr. 
Meredith and the children as he does, for they’ll need 
friends more than ever after this. I am tired of mak- 
ing excuses for them, believe m^.” 


MISS CORNELIA’S NEW VIEW 277 

I ‘‘Do you know, dear Miss Cornelia,” said Anne seri- 
j ously, “I think we have all been making too many 
j excuses. It is very foolish and we ought to stop it. 
^ 1 am going to tell you what Fd like to do. I shan’t 
; do it, of course” — Anne had noted a glint of alarm in 
;i Susan’s eye — “it would be too unconventional, and we 
li must be conventional or die, after we reach what is 
ij supposed to be a dignified age. But I’d like to do it. 
Ij I’d like to call a meeting of the Ladies’ Aid and 
i W. M. S. and the Girls’ Sewing Society, and include 
i in the audience all and any Methodists who have been 
j criticising the Merediths — although I do think if we 
i Presbyterians stopped criticising and excusing we 
\ would find that other denominations would trouble 
j themselves very little about our manse folks. I would 
say to them, ‘Dear Christian friends’ — with marked 
emphasis on ‘Christian’ — I have something to say to 
you and I want to say it good and hard, that you may 
take it home and repeat it to your families. You Meth- 
odists need not pity us, and we Presbyterians need 
not pity ourselves. We are not going to do it any 
more. And we are going to say, boldly and truthfully, 
to all critics and sympathizers, ‘We are proud of our 
minister and his family. Mr. Meredith is the best 
preacher Glen St. Mary Church ever had. Moreover, 
he is a sincere, earnest teacher of truth and Christian 
charity. He, is a faithful friend, a judicious pastor in 
all essentials, and a refined, scholarly, well-bred man. 
His family are worthy of him. Gerald' Meredith is 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


278 

the cleverest pupil in the Glen school, and Mr. Hazard 
says that he is destined to a brilliant career. He is a 
manly, honourable, truthful little fellow. Faith Mere- 
dith is a beauty, and as inspiring and original as she 
is beautiful. There is nothing commonplace about her. 
All the other girls in the Glen put together haven’t the 
vim, and wit, and joyousness and 'spunk’ she has. She 
has not an enemy in the world. Every one who knows 
her loves her. Of how many, children or grown-ups, 
can that be said ? Una Meredith is sweetness personi- 
fied. She will make a most lovable woman. Carl 
Meredith, with his love for ants and frogs and spiders, 
will some day be a naturalist whom all Canada — nay, 
all the world, will delight to honour. Do you know 
of any other family in the Glen, or out of it, of whom 
all these things can be said? Away with shamefaced 
excuses and apologies. We rejoice in our minister 
and his splendid boys and girls !” 

Anne stopped, partly because she was out of breath 
after her vehement speech and partly because she could 
not trust herself to speak further in view of Miss Cor- 
nelia’s face. That good lady was staring helplessly 
at Anne, apparently engulfed in billows of new ideas. 
But she came up with a gasp and struck out for shore 
gallantly. 

"Anne Blythe, I wish you would call that meeting 
and say just that! You’ve made me ashamed of my- 
self, for one, and far be it from me to refuse to admit 
it. Of course, that is how we should have talked — 


MISS CORNELIA’S NEW VIEW 279 

especially to the Methodists. And it’s every word of 
it true — every word. We’ve just been shutting our 
eyes to the big worth-while things and squinting them 
on the little things that don’t really matter a pin’s 
worth. Oh, Anne, dearie, I can see a thing when it’s 
hammered into my head. No more apologizing for 
Cornelia Marshall ! I shall hold my head up after this, 
believe me, — though I may talk things over with you 
as usual just to relieve my feelings if the Merediths 
do any more startling stunts. Even that letter I felt 
so bad about — why, it’s only a good joke after all, as 
Norman says. Not many girls would have been cute 
enough to think of writing it — and all punctuated so 
nicely and not one word misspelled. Just let me hear 
any Methodist say one word about it — though all 
the same I’ll never forgive Joe Vickers — believe me! 
Where are the rest of your small fry to-night?” 

'"Walter and the twins are in Rainbow Valley. Jem 
is studying in the garret.” 

“They are all crazy about Rainbow Valley. Mary 
Vance thinks it’s the only place in the world. She’d 
be off up here every evening if I’d let her. But I don’t 
encourage her in gadding. Besides, I miss the creature 
when she isn’t around, Anne dearie. I never thought 
I’d get so fond of her. Not but what I see her faults 
and try to correct them. But she has never said one 
saucy word to me since she came to my house and she 
is a great help — for when all is said and done, Anne 
dearie, I am not so young as I once was, and there is 


28 o 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


no sense in denying it. I was fifty-nine my last birth- 
day. I don’t feel it, but there is no gainsaying the 
Family Bible.’^ 


CHAPTER XXVII 
A Sacred Concert 


13 

! 

I N spite of Miss Cornelia’s new point of view she 
could not help feeling a little disturbed over the next 
i performance of the manse children. In public she car- 
i ried oif the situation splendidly, saying to all the 
I gossips the substance of what Anne had said in daffodil 
I time, and saying it so pointedly and forcibly that her 
I hearers found themselves feeling rather foolish and 
began to think that, after all, they were making too 
much of a childish prank. But in private Miss Cor- 
nelia allowed herself the relief of bemoaning it to 
Anne. 

‘*Anne, dearie, they had a concert in the graveyard 
last Thursday evening, while the Methodist prayer 
meeting was going on. There they sat, on Hezekiah 
Pollock’s tombstone, and sang for a solid hour. Of 
course, I understand it was mostly hymns they sang, 
and it wouldn’t have been quite so bad if they’d done 
nothing else. But I’m told they finished up with Polly 
Wolly Doodle at full length — and that just when 
Deacon Baxter was praying.” 

*T was there that night,” said Susan, ‘‘and, although 
I did not say anything about it to you, Mrs. Dr. dear. 


282 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


I could not help thinking that it was a great pity they 
picked that particular evening. It was truly blood- 
curdling to hear them sitting there in that abode of the 
dead, shouting that frivolous song at the tops of their 
lungs.'' 

‘‘I don't know what you were doing in a Methodist 
prayer meeting," said Miss Cornelia acidly. 

have never found that Methodism was catching," 
retorted Susan stiffly. ‘"And, as I was going to say 
when I was interrupted, badly as I felt, I did not give 
in to the Methodists. When Mrs. Deacon Baxter said, 
as we came out, ‘What a disgraceful exhibition!' I 
said, looking her fairly in the eye, ‘They are all beauti- 
ful singers and none of your choir, Mrs. Baxter, ever 
bother themselves coming out to your prayer meeting, 
it seems. Their voices appear to be in tune only on 
Sundays!' She was quite meek and I felt that I had 
snubbed her properly. But I could have done it much 
more thoroughly, Mrs. Dr. dear, if only they had left 
out Polly Wolly Doodle, It is truly terrible to think 
of that being sung in a graveyard." 

“Some of those dead folks sang Polly Wolly Doodle 
when they were living, Susan. Perhaps they like to 
hear it yet," suggested Gilbert. 

Miss Cornelia looked at him reproachfully and made 
up her mind that, on some future occasion, she would 
hint to Anne that the doctor should be admonished not 
to say such things. They might injure his practice. 
People might get it into their heads that he wasn't 


A SACRED CONCERT 


283 

orthodox. To be sure, Marshall said even worse 
things habitually, but then he was not a public man. 

‘T understand that their father was in his study all 
the time, with his windows open, but never noticed 
I them at all. Of course, he was lost in a book as usual. 
But / spoke to him about it yesterday, when he called. 

“How could you dare, Mrs. Marshall Elliott?” 
asked Susan rebukingly. 

“Dare ! It’s time somebody dared something. Why, 
they say he knows nothing about that letter of Faith’s 
to the Journal because nobody liked to mention it to 
him. He never looks at a Journal of course. But I 
thought he ought to know of this to prevent any such 
performances in future. He said he would ‘discuss it 
j with them.’ But of course he’d never think of it again 
j after he got out of our gate. That man has no sense of 
humour, Anne, believe me. He preached last Sunday 
on ‘How to Bring up Children.’ A beautiful sermon 
it was, too — and everybody in church thinking ‘what 
a pity you can’t practice what you preach.’ ” 

Miss Cornelia did Mr. Meredith an injustice in 
thinking he would so soon forget what she had told 
him. He went home much disturbed and when the 
children came from Rainbow Valley that night, at a 
much later hour than they should have been prowling 
in it, he called them into his study. 

They went in, somewhat awed. It was such an un- 
usual thing for their father to do. What could he 
be going to say to them ? They racked their memories 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


284 

for any recent transgression of sufficient Importance, 
but could not recall any. Carl had spilled a saucer ful 
of jam on Mrs. Peter Flagg’s silk dress two evenings 
before, when, at Aunt Martha’s invitation, she had 
stayed to supper. But Mr. Meredith had not noticed 
it, and Mrs. Flagg, who was a kindly soul, had made 
no fuss. Besides, Carl had been punished by having 
to wear Una’s dress all the rest of the evening. 

Una suddenly thought that perhaps her father meant 
to tell them that he was going to marry Miss West. 
Her heart began to beat violently and her legs trembled. 
Then she saw that Mr. Meredith looked very stern and 
sorrowful. No, it could not be that. 

^'Children,” said Mr. Meredith, ‘T have heard some- 
thing that has pained me very much. Is it true that 
you sat out in the graveyard all last Thursday eve- 
ning and sang ribald songs while a prayer meeting was 
being held in the Methodist church ?” 

‘Ureat Cesser, dad, we forgot all about it being their 
prayer meeting night,” exclaimed Jerry in dismay. * 

‘‘Then it is true — you did do this thing ?” 

“Why, dad, I don’t know what you mean by ribald 
songs. We sang hymns — it was a sacred concert, you 
know. What harm was that? I tell you we never 
thought about it’s being Methodist prayer meeting 
night. They used to have their meeting Tuesday 
nights and since they’ve changed to Thursdays it’s 
hard to remember.” 


A SACRED CONCERT 


285 


‘‘Did you sing nothing but hymns 

“Why/' said Jerry, turning red, “we did sing Polly 
Wolly Doodle at the last. Faith said, ‘Let’s have 
something cheerful to wind up with.’ But we didn’t 
j mean any harm, father — truly we didn’t.” 

} “Th« concert was my idea, father,” said Faith, 
j afraid that Mr. Meredith might blame Jerry too much. 

“You know the Methodists themselves had a sacred 
I concert in their church three Sunday nights ago. I 
thought it would be good fun to get one up in imitation 
I of it. Only they had prayers at theirs, and we left 
that part out, because we heard that people thought it 
[ awful for us to pray in a graveyard. You were sitting 
in here all the time,” she added, “and never said a word 
to us.” 

“I did not notice what you were doing. That is no 
excuse for me, of course. I am more to blame than 
you, — I realize that. But why did you sing that 
foolish song at the end ?” 

“We didn’t think,” muttered Jerry, feeling that it 
was a very lame excuse, seeing that he had lectured 
Faith so strongly in the Good-Conduct Club sessions 
for her lack of thought. “We’re sorry, father, — truly, 
we are. Pitch into us hard — we deserve a regular 
combing down.” 

I But Mr. Meredith did no combing down or pitching 
into. He sat down and gathered his small culprits 
close to him and talked a little to them, tenderly and 


286 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


wisely. They were overcome with remorse and shame, 
and felt that they could never be so silly and thought- 
less again. 

‘'WeVe just got to punish ourselves good and hard 
for this,” whispered Jerry as they crept upstairs. 
‘YVe’ll have a session of the Club first thing to-morrow 
and decide how we’ll do it. I never saw father so cut 
up. But I wish to goodness the Methodists would stick 
to one night for their prayer meeting and not wander 
all over the week.” 

“Any how. I’m glad it wasn’t what I was afraid it 
was,” murmured Una to herself. 

Behind them, in the study, Mr. Meredith had sat 
down at his desk and buried his face in his arms. 

“God help me!” he said. “I’m a poor sort of a 
father. Oh, Rosemary! If you had only cared!” 


CHAPTER XXVIII 
A Fast Day 

T he Good-Conduct Club had a special session 
the next morning before school. After various 
suggestions, it was decided that a fast day would be 
an appropriate punishment. 

“We won’t eat a single thing for a whole day,” said 
Jerry. “I’m kind of curious to see what fasting is 
like, anyhow. This will be a good chance to find out.” 

“What day will we choose for it?” asked Una, who 
thought it would be quite an easy punishment and 
rather wondered that Jerry and Faith had not devised 
something harder. 

“Let’s pick Monday,” said Faith. “We mostly have 
a pretty filling dinner on Sundays, and Mondays’ meals 
never amount to much anyhow.” 

“But that’s just the point,” exclaimed Jerry. “We 
mustn’t take the easiest day to fast, but the hardest — 
and that’s Sunday, because, as you say, we mostly have 
roast beef that day instead of cold ditto. It wouldn’t 
be much punishment to fast from ditto. Let’s take 
next Sunday. It will be a good day, for father is 
going to exchange for the morning service with the 
Upper Lowbridge minister. Father will be away till 
287 


288 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


evening. If Aunt Martha wonders what's got into 
us, we'll tell her right up that we’re fasting for the 
good of our souls, and it is in the Bible and she is not 
to interfere, and I guess she won’t.” 

Aunt Martha did not. She merely said in her fret- 
ful, mumbling way, ‘What foolishness are you young 
rips up to now ?” and thought no more about it. Mr. 
Meredith had gone away early in the morning before 
any one was up. He went without his breakfast, too, 
but that was, of course, of common occurrence. Half 
of the time he forgot it and there was no one to remind 
him of it. Breakfast — Aunt Martha's breakfast — 
was not a hard meal to miss. Even the hungry “young 
rips” did not feel it any great deprivation to abstain 
from the “lumpy porridge and blue milk” which had 
aroused the scorn of Mary Vance. But it was different ; 
at dinner time. They were furiously hungry then, and j 
the odour of roast beef which pervaded the manse, 
and which was wholly delightful in spite of the fact 
that the roast beef itself was badly underdone, was 
almost more than they could stand. In desperation 
they rushed to the graveyard where they couldn’t smell 
it. But Una could not keep her eyes from the dining ; 
room window, through which the Upper Lowbridge 
minister could be seen, placidly eating. 

“If I could only have just a weeny, teeny piece,” she i 
sighed. I 

“Now, you stop that,” commanded Jerry. “Of ; 
course it's hard — but that’s the punishment of it. I | 


A FAST DAY 


289 

could eat a graven image this very minute, but am I 
complaining? Let’s think of something else. We’ve 
just got to rise above our stomachs.” 

At supper time they did not feel the pangs of hunger 
which they had suffered earlier in the day. 

suppose we’re getting used to it,” said Faith. 
‘T feel an awfully queer all-gone sort of feeling, but 
I can’t say I’m hungry.” 

‘‘My head is funny,” said Una. “It goes round and 
round sometimes.” 

But she went gamely to church with the others. If 
Mr. Meredith had not been so wholly wrapped up in 
and carried away with his subject he might have 
noticed the pale little face and hollow eyes in the manse 
pew beneath. But he noticed nothing and his sermon 
was something longer than usual. Then, just before 
he gave out the final hymn, Una Meredith tumbled off 
the seat of the manse pew and lay in a dead faint on 
the floor. 

Mrs. Elder Clow was the first to reach her. She 
caught the thin little body from the arms of white- 
faced, terrified Faith and carried it into the vestry. 
Mr. Meredith forgot the hymn and everything else 
and rushed madly after her. The congregation dis- 
missed itself as best it could. 

“Oh, Mrs. Clow,” gasped Faith, “is Una dead? 
Have we killed her?” 

“What is the matter with my child?” demanded the 
pale father. 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


290 

*'She has just fainted, I think, said Mrs. Clow. 
‘^Oh, here’s the doctor, thank goodness.” 

Gilbert did not find it a very easy thing to bring Una 
back to consciousness. He worked over her for a long 
time before her eyes opened. Then he carried her over 
to the manse, followed by Faith, sobbing hysterically 
in her relief. 

‘‘She is just hungry, you know — she didn’t eat a 
thing to-day — none of us did — we were all fasting.” 

“Fasting!” said Mr. Meredith, and “Fasting?” said 
the doctor. 

“Yes — to punish ou /selves for singing Polly Wolly 
in the graveyard,” sobbed Faith. 

“My child, I don’t want you to punish yourselves for 
that,” said Mr. Meredith in distress. “I gave you your 
little scolding — and you were all penitent — and I for- 
gave you.” 

“Yes, but we had to be punished,” explained Faith. 
“It’s our rule — in our Good-Conduct Club, you know 
— if we do anything wrong, or anything that is likely 
to hurt father in the congregation, we have to punish 
ourselves. We are bringing ourselves up, you know, 
because there is nobody to do it.” 

Mr. Meredith groaned, but the doctor got up from 
Una’s side with an air of relief. 

“Then this child simply fainted from lack of food 
and all she needs is a good square meal,” he said. 
“Mrs. Clow, will you be kind enough to see she gets it? 
And I think from Faith’s story that they all would be 


A FAST DAY 


291 

the better of something to eat, or we shall have more 
faintings,’' 

“I suppose we shouldn’t have made Una fast,” said 
Faith remorsefully. “When I think of it, only Jerry 
and I should have been punished. We got up the con- 
cert and we were the oldest.” 

“I sang Polly Wolly just the same as the rest of 
you,” said Una’s weak little voice, “so I had to be 
punished, too.” 

Mrs. Clow came with a glass of milk, Faith and 
Jerry and Carl sneaked off to the pantry, and John 
Meredith went into his study, where he sat in the 
darkness for a long time, along with his bitter 
thoughts. So his children were bringing themselves 
up because there was “nobody to do it” — struggling 
along amid their little perplexities without a hand to 
guide or a voice to counsel. Faith’s innocently uttered 
phrase rankled in her father’s mind like a barbed shaft. 
There was “nobody” to look after them — to comfort 
their little souls and care for their little bodies. How 
frail Una had looked, lying there on the vestry sofa 
in that long faint! How thin were her tiny hands, 
how pallid her little face! She looked as if she might 
slip away from him in a breath — sweet little Una, of 
whom Cecilia had begged him to take such special care. 
Since his wife’s death he had not felt such an agony 
of dread as when he had hung over his little girl in 
her unconsciousness. He must do something — ^but 
what? Should he ask Elizabeth Kirk to marry him? 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


292 

She was a good woman — she would be kind to his 
children. He might bring himself to do it if it were 
not for his love of Rosemary West. But until he had 
crushed that out he could not seek another woman in 
marriage. And he could not crush it out — he had tried 
and he could not. Rosemary had been in church that 
evening, for the first time since her return from Kings- 
port. He had caught a glimpse of her face in the back 
of the crowded church, just as he had finished his 
sermon. His heart had given a fierce throb. He sat 
while the choir sang the ‘^collection piece,” with his 
bent head and tingling pulses. He had not seen her 
since the evening upon which he had asked her to 
marry him. When he had risen to give out the hymn 
his hands were trembling and his pale face was flushed. 
Then Una^s fainting spell had banished everything 
from his mind for a time. Now, in the darkness and 
solitude of the study it rushed back. Rosemary was 
the only woman in the world for him. It was of no 
use for him to think of marrying any other. He could 
not commit such a sacrilege even for his children’s 
sake. He must take up his burden alone — he must try 
to be a better, a more watchful father — he must tell 
his children not to be afraid to come to him with all 
their little problems. Then he lighted his lamp and 
took up a bulky new book which was setting the theo- 
logical world by the ears. He would read just one 
chapter to compose his mind. Five minutes later he 
was lost to the world and the troubles of the world. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


A Weird Tale 

O N an early June evening Rainbow Valley was a 
entirely delightful place and the children felt it 
to be so, as they sat in the open glade where the bells 
rang elfishly on the Tree Lovers, and the White Lady 
shook her green tresses. The wind was laughing and 
whistling about them like a leal, glad-hearted comrade. 
The young ferns were spicy in the hollow. The wild 
cherry trees scattered over the valley, among the dark 
firs, were mistily white. The robins were whistling 
over in the maples behind Ingleside. Beyond, on the 
slopes of the Glen, were blossoming orchards, sweet 
and mystic and wonderful, veiled in dusk. It was 
spring, and young things must be glad in spring. 
Everybody was glad in Rainbow Valley that evening — 
until Mary Vance froze their blood with the story of 
Henry Warren's ghost. 

Jem was not there. Jem spent his evenings now 
studying for his entrance examination in the Ingleside 
garret. Jerry was down near the pond, trouting. 
Walter had been reading Longfellow’s sea poems to 
the others and they were steeped in the beauty and 
mystery of the ships. Then they talked of what they 
293 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


294 

would do when they were grown up — where they 
would travel — the far, fair shores they would see. 
Nan and Di meant to go to Europe. Walter longed 
for the Nile moaning past its Egyptian sands, and a 
glimpse of the sphinx. Faith opined rather dismally 
that she supposed she would have to be a missionary — 
old Mrs. Taylor had told her she ought to be — and 
then she would at least see India or China, those mys- 
terious lands of the Orient. Carl’s heart was set on 
African jungles. Una said nothing. She thought she 
would just like to stay at home. It was prettier here 
than anywhere else. It would be dreadful when they 
were all grown up and had to scatter over the world. 
The very idea made Una feel lonesome and homesick. 
But the others dreamed on delightedly until Mary 
Vance arrived and banished poesy and dreams at one 
fell swoop. 

"'Laws, but I’m out of puff,” she exclaimed. "Tve 
run down that hill like sixty. I got an awful scare up 
there at the old Bailey place.” 

“What frightened you?” asked Di. 

“I dunno. I was poking about under them lilacs in 
the old garden, trying to see if there was any lilies- 
of-the-valley out yet. It was dark as a pocket there — 
and all at once I seen something stirring and rustling 
round at the other side of the garden, in those cherry 
bushes. It was white. I tell you I didn’t stop for 
a second look. I flew over the dyke quicker than quick. 
I was sure it was Henry Warren’s ghost.” 


A WEIRD TALE 


295 


“Who was Henry Warren?” asked Di. 

“And why should he have a ghost?” asked Nan. 

“Laws, did you never hear the story? And you 
brought up in the Glen. Well, wait a minute till I 
get my breath all back and I’ll tell you.” 

Walter shivered delightsomely. He loved ghost 
stories. Their mystery, their dramatic climaxes, their 
eeriness gave him a fearful, exquisite pleasure. Long- 
I fellow instantly grew tame and commonplace. He 
i threw the book aside and stretched himself out,. 

I propped upon his elbows to listen whole-heartedly,, 

I fixing his great luminous eyes on Mary’s face. Mary 
! wished he wouldn’t look at her so. She felt she could 
make a far better job of the ghost story if Walter were 
not looking at her. She could put on several frills 
and invent a few artistic details to enhance the horror. 
As it was, she had to stick to the bare truth — or what 
had been told her for truth. 

“Well,” she began, “you know old Tom Bailey and 
his wife used to live in that house up there thirty years 
ago. He was an awful old rip, they say, and his wife 
wasn’t much better. They’d no children of their own^ 
but a sister of old Tom’s died and left a little boy — 
this Henry Warren — and they took him. He was 
about twelve when he came to them, and kind of under- 
sized and delicate. They say Tom and his wife used 
him awful from the start — whipped him and starved 
him. Folks said they wanted him to die so’s they could 
get the little bit of money his mother had left for him. 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


296 

Henry didn’t die right off, but he begun having fits — 
epileps, they called ’em — and he grew up kind of 
simple, till he was about eighteen. His uncle used to 
thrash him in that garden up there, ’cause it was back 
of the house where no one could see him. But folks 
could hear and they say it was awful sometimes hear- 
ing poor Henry plead with his uncle not to kill him. 
But nobody dared interfere ’cause old Tom was such 
a reprobate he’d have been sure to get square with ’em 
some way. He burned the barns of a man at Harbour 
Head who offended him. At last Henry died and his 
uncle and aunt give out he died in one of his fits and 
that was all anybody ever knowed, but everybody said 
Tom had just up and killed him for keeps at last. And 
it wasn’t long till it got round that Henry walked. 
That old garden was ha'nted. He was heard there at 
nights, moaning and crying. Old Tom and his wife 
got out — went out West and never come back. 
The place got such a bad name nobody’ d buy or rent 
it. That’s why it’s all gone to ruin. That was thirty 
years ago, but Henry Warren’s ghost ha’nts it yet.” 

‘‘Do you believe that?” asked Nan scornfully. “/ 
don’t.” 

“Well, good people have seen him — and heard him,” 
retorted Mary. “They say he appears and grovels 
on the ground and holds you by the legs and gibbers 
and moans like he did when he was alive. I thought 
of that as soon as I seen that white thing in the bushes 
and thought if it caught me like that and moaned I’d 


A WEIRD TALE 


297 

drop down dead on the spot. So I cut and run. It 
mightn't have been his ghost, but I wasn’t going to take 
any chances with a ha’nt.”* 

“It was likely old Mrs. Stimson’s white calf,” 
laughed Di. “It pastures in that garden — I’ve seen it.” 

“Maybe so. But /’m not going home through the 
Bailey garden any more. Here’s Jerry with a big 
string of trout and it’s my turn to cook them. Jem 
and Jerry both say I’m the best cook in the Glen. And 
Cornelia told me I could bring up this batch of cookies. 
I all but dropped them when I saw Henry’s ghost.” 

Jerry hooted when he heard the ghost story — which 
Mary repeated as she fried the fish, touching it up a 
trifle or so, since Walter had gone to help Faith set 
the table. It made no impression on Jerry, but Faith 
and Una and Carl had been secretly much frightened, 
though they would never have given in to it. It was 
all right as long as the others were with them in the 
valley; but when the feast was over and the shadows 
fell they quaked with remembrance. Jerry went up to 
Ingleside with the Blythes to see Jem about something, 
and Mary Vance went around that way home. So 
Faith and Una and Carl had to go back to the manse 
alone. They walked very close together and gave the 
old Bailey garden a wide berth. They did not believe 
that it was haunted, of course, but they would not go 
near it for all that. 


CHAPTER XXX 


The Ghost on the Dyke 

S OMEHOW, Faith and Carl and Una could not 
shake off the hold which the story of Henry War- 
ren's ghost had taken upon their irr^ginations. They 
had never believed in ghosts. Ghost tales they had 
heard a-plenty — Mary Vance had told some far more 
blood-curdling than this; but those tales were all of 
places and people and spooks far away and unknown. 
After the first half-awful, half-pleasant thrill of awe 
and terror they thought of them no more. But this 
story came home to them. The old Bailey garden was 
almost at their very door — almost in their beloved 
Rainbow Valley. They had passed and repassed it 
constantly ; they had hunted for flowers in it ; they had 
made short cuts through it when they wished to go 
straight from the village to the valley. But never 
again! After the night when Mary Vance told them 
its gruesome tale they would not have gone through 
or near it on pain of death. Death 1 What was death 
compared to the unearthly possibility of falling into 
the clutches of Henry Warren’s grovelling ghost? 

One warm July evening the three of them were 
sitting under the Tree Lovers, feeling a little lonely. 
298 


THE GHOST ON THE DYKE 299 

Nobody else had come near the valley that evening. 
Jem Blythe was away in Charlottetown, writing on 
his entrance examinations. Jerry and Walter Blythe 
were off for a sail on the harbour with old Captain 
Crawford. Nan and Di and Rilla and Shirley had 
gone down the harbour road to visit Kenneth and 
Persis Ford, who had come with their parents for a 
fl3dng visit to the little old House of Dreams. Nan 
had asked Faith to go with them, but Faith had de- 
clined. She wottld never have admitted it, but she 
felt a little secret jealousy of Persis Ford, concerning 
whose wonderful beauty and city glamour she had 
heard a great deal. No, she wasn’t going to go down 
there and play second fiddle to anybody. She and 
Una took their story books to Rainbow Valley and 
read, while Carl investigated bugs along the banks of 
the brook, and all three were happy until they suddenly 
realized that it was twilight and that the old Bailey 
garden was uncomfortably near by. Carl came and 
sat down close to the girls. They all wished they had 
gone home a little sooner, but nobody said anything. 

Great, velvety, purple clouds heaped up in the west 
and spread over the valley. There was no wind and 
everything was suddenly, strangely, dreadfully still. 
The marsh was full of thousands of fireflies. Surely 
some fairy parliament was being convened that night. 
Altogether, Rainbow Valley was not a canny place 
just then. 

Faith looked fearfully up the valley to the old Bailey 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


300 

garden. Then, if anybody's blood ever did freeze, 
Faith Meredith’s certainly froze at that moment. The 
eyes of Carl and Una followed her entranced gaze and 
chills began gallopading up and down their spines also. 
For there, under the big tamarack tree on the tumble- 
down, grass-grown dyke of the Bailey garden, was a 
something white — shapelessly white in the gathering 
gloom. The three Merediths sat and gazed as if 
turned to stone. 

‘‘It’s — it’s the — calf,” whispered Una at last. 

“It’s — too — big — for the calf,” whispered Faith. 
Her mouth and lips were so dry she could hardly 
articulate the words. 

Suddenly Carl gasped, 

“It’s coming here.” 

The girls gave one last agonized glance. Yes, it was 
creeping down over the dyke, as no calf ever did or 
could creep. Reason fled before sudden, over-master- 
ing panic. For the moment every one of the trio was 
firmly convinced that what they saw was Henry War- 
ren’s ghost. Carl sprang to his feet and bolted blindly. 
With a simultaneous shriek the girls followed him. 
Like mad creatures they tore up the hill, across the 
road and into the manse. They had left Aunt Martha 
sewing in the kitchen. She was not there. They 
rushed to the study. It was dark and tenantless. As 
with one impulse, they swung around and made for 
Ingleside — but not across Rainbow Valley. Down the 
hill and through the Glen street they flew on the wings 


THE GHOST ON THE DYKE 301 

of their wild terror, Carl in the lead, Una bringing up 
the rear. Nobody tried to stop them, though everybody 
who saw them wondered what fresh devilment those 
manse youngsters were up to now. But at the gate of 
Ingleside they ran into Rosemary West, who had just 
been in for a moment to return some borrowed books. 

She saw their ghastly faces and staring eyes. She 
realized that their poor little souls were wrung with 
some awful and real fear, whatever its cause. She 
caught Carl with one arm and Faith with the other. 
Una stumbled against her and held on desperately. 

‘'Children, dear, what has happened?” she said. 
“What has frightened you?” 

“Henry Warren's ghost,” answered Carl, through 
his chattering teeth. 

“Henry — Warren's — ghost !” said amazed Rose- 
mary, who had never heard the story. 

“Yes,” sobbed Faith hysterically. “It's there — on 
the Bailey dyke — we saw it — and it started to — chase 
us.” 

Rosemary herded the three distracted creatures to 
the Ingleside veranda. Gilbert and Anne were both 
away, having also gone to the House of Dreams, but 
Susan appeared in the doorway, gaunt and practical 
and unghostlike. 

“What is all this rumpus about?” she inquired. 

Again the children gasped out their awful tale, while 
Rosemary held them close to her and soothed them 
with wordless comfort. 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


302 

‘‘Likely it was an owl,” said Susan, unstirred. 

An owl! The Meredith children never had any 
opinion of Susan’s intelligence after that! 

“It was bigger than a million owls,” said Carl, sob- 
bing — oh, how ashamed Carl was of that sobbing in 
after days — “and it — it grovelled just as Mary said — 
and it was crawling down over the dyke to get at us. 
Do owls crawlf” 

Rosemary looked at Susan. 

“They must have seen something to frighten them 
so,” she said. 

“I will go and see,” said Susan coolly. “Now, chil- 
dren, calm yourselves. Whatever you have seen, it 
was not a ghost. As for poor Henry Warren, I feel 
sure he would be only too glad to rest quietly in his 
peaceful grave once he got there. No fear of him 
venturing back, and that you may tie to. If you can 
make them see reason. Miss West, I will find out the 
truth of the matter.” 

Susan departed for Rainbow Valley, valiantly grasp- 
ing a pitchfork which she found leaning against the 
back fence where the doctor had been working in his 
little hay-field. A pitchfork might not be of much 
tise against “ha’nts,” but it was a comforting sort of 
weapon. There was nothing to be seen in Rainbow 
Valley when Susan reached it. No white visitants 
appeared to be lurking in the shadowy, tangled old 
Bailey garden. Susan marched boldly through it and 
beyond it, and rapped with her pitchfork on the door 


THE GHOST ON THE DYKE 303 

of the little cottage on the other side, where Mrs. 
Stimson lived with her two daughters. 

Back at Ingleside Rosemary had succeeded in calm- 
ing the children. They still sobbed a little from shock, 
but they were beginning to feel a lurking and salutary 
suspicion that they had made dreadful geese of them- 
selves. This suspicion became a certainty when Susan 
finally returned. 

‘T have found out what your ghost was,” she said, 
with a grim smile, sitting down on a rocker and fan- 
ning herself. *'01d Mrs. Stimson has had a pair of 
factory cotton sheets bleaching in the Bailey garden 
for a week. She spread them on the dyke under the 
tamarack tree because the grass was clean and short 
there. This evening she went out to take them in. 
She had her knitting in her hands so she flung the 
sheets over her shoulders by way of carrying them. 
And then she must drop one of her needles and find 
it she could not and has not yet. But she went down 
on her knees and crept about to hunt for it, and she 
was at that when she heard awful yells down in the 
valley and saw the three children tearing up the hill 
past her. She thought they had been bit by something 
and it gave her poor old heart such a turn that she 
could not move or speak, but just crouched there till 
they disappeared. Then she staggered back home and 
they have been applying stimulants to her ever since, 
and her heart is in a terrible condition and she says she 
will not get over this fright all summer.” 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


304 

The Merediths sat, crimson with a shame that even 
Rosemary^s understanding sympathy could not re- 
move. They sneaked off home, met Jerry at the manse 
gate and made remorseful confession. A session of 
the Good-Conduct Club was arranged for next morn- 
ing. 

‘‘Wasn’t Miss West sweet to us to-night?” whis- 
pered Faith in bed. 

“Yes,” admitted Una. “It is such a pity it changes 
people so much to be made stepmothers.” 

“I don’t believe it does,” said Faith loyally. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


Carl Does Penance 

DON'T see why we should be punished at all," 

X said Faith, rather sulkily. ‘‘We didn’t do any- 
thing wrong. We couldn’t help being frightened. 
And it won’t do father any harm. It was just an acci- 
dent.’’ 

“You were cowards,’’ said Jerry with judicial scorn, 
“and you gave way to your cowardice. That is why 
you should be punished. Everybody will laugh at you 
about this, and that is a disgrace to the family.’’ 

“If you knew how awful the whole thing was,’’ said 
Faith with a shiver, “you would think we had been 
punished enough already. I wouldn’t go through it 
again for anything in the whole world.’’ 

“I believe you’d have run yourself if you’d been 
there,’’ muttered Carl. 

“From an old woman in a cotton sheet,’’ mocked 
Jerry. “Ho, ho, ho!’’ 

“It didn’t look a bit like an old woman,’’ cried Faith. 
“It was just a great, big, white thing crawling about 
in the grass just as Mary Vance said Henry Warren 
did. It’s all very fine for you to laugh, Jerry Mere- 
dith, but you’d have laughed on the other side of your 
305 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


306 

mouth if you’d been there. And how are we to be 
punished ? I don’t think it’s fair, but let’s know what 
we have to do, Judge Meredith!” 

‘‘The way I look at it,” said Jerry, frowning, “is 
that Carl was the most to blame. He bolted first, as ^ 
I understand it. Besides, he was a boy, so he should : 
have stood his ground to protect you girls, whatever ! 
the danger was. You know that Carl, don’t you?” \ 
“I s’pose so,” growled Carl shamefacedly. •] 

“Very well. This is to be your punishment. To- It 
night you’ll sit on Mr. Hezekiah Pollock’s tombstone ] 
in the graveyard alone, until twelve o’clock.” I 

Carl gave a little shudder. The graveyard was not j 
so very far from the old Bailey garden. It would be I 
a trying ordeal. But Carl was anxious to wipe out jj 
his disgrace and prove that he was not a coward after \ 
all. 5 

“All right,” he said sturdily. “But how’ll I know | 

when it is twelve?” I 

1 

“The study windows are open and you’ll hear the 5 
clock striking. And mind that you are not to budge 
out of that graveyard until the last stroke. As for you 
girls, you’ve got to go without jam at supper for a ' 
week.” 

Faith and Una looked rather blank. They were 
inclined to think that even Carl’s comparatively short 
though sharp agony was lighter punishment than this 
long drawn-out ordeal. A whole week of soggy bread 
without the saving grace of jam! But no shirking 


CARL DOES PENANCE 


307 

was permitted in the club. The girls accepted their 
lot with such philosophy as they could summon up. 

That night they all went to bed at nine, except Carl, 

! who was already keeping vigil on the tombstone. Una 
slipped in to bid him good night. Her tender heart 
I was wrung with sympathy. 

“Oh, Carl, are you much scared ?” she whispered. 

“Not a bit,” said Carl airily. 

I “I won’t sleep a wink till after twelve,” said Una. 

I “If you get lonesome just look up at our window and 
’ remember that I’m inside, awake, and thinking about 
I you. That will be a little company, won’t it?” 
j “I’ll be all right. Don’t you worry about me,” said 
Carl. 

But in spite of his dauntless words Carl was a pretty 
lonely boy when the lights went out in the manse. He 
had hoped his father would be in the study as he so 
often was. He would not feel alone then. But that 
night Mr. Meredith had been summoned to the fishing 
village at the harbour mouth to see a dying man. He 
would not likely be back until after midnight. Carl 
ihust dree his weird alone. 

A Glen man went past carrying a lantern. The mys- 
terious shadows caused by the lantern-light went hurt- 
ling madly over the graveyard like a dance of demons 
or witches. Then they passed and darkness fell again. 
One' by one the lights in the Glen went out. It was a 
very dark night, with a cloudy sky, and a raw east 
wind that was cold in spite of the calendar. Far away 


3o8 rainbow valley 

on the horizon was the low dim lustre of the Charlotte- 
town lights. The wind wailed and sighed in the old 
fir trees. Mr. Alec Davis' tall monument gleamed 
whitely through the gloom. The willow beside it 
tossed long, writhing arms spectrally. At times, the 
gyrations of its boughs made it seem as if the monu- 
ment were moving, too. 

Carl curled himself up on the tombstone with his 
legs tucked under him. It wasn’t precisely pleasant to 
hang them over the edge of the stone. Just suppose — 
just suppose — ^bony hands should reach up out of Mr. 
Pollock’s grave under it and clutch him by the ankles. 
That had been one of Mary Vance’s cheerful specula- 
tions one time when they had all been sitting there. It 
returned to haunt Carl now. He didn’t believe those 
things ; he didn’t even really believe in Henry Warren’s 
ghost. As for Mr. Pollock, he had been dead for sixty 
years, so it wasn’t likely he cared who sat on his tomb- 
stone now. But there is something very strange and 
terrible in being awake when all the rest of the world 
is asleep. You are alone then with nothing but your 
own feeble personality to pit against the mighty princi- 
palities and powers of darkness. Carl was only ten 
and the dead were all around him — and he wished, 
oh, he wished that the clock would strike twelve. 
Would it never strike twelve? Surely Aunt Martha 
must have forgotten to wind it. 

And then it struck eleven — only eleven! He must 
stay yet another hour in that grim place. If only 


CARL DOES PENANCE 


309 

there were a few friendly stars to be seen ! The dark- 
ness was so thick it seemed to press against his face. 
There was a sound as of stealthy passing footsteps all 
over the graveyard. Carl shivered, partly with prick- 
ling terror, partly with real cold. 

Then it began to rain — a chill, penetrating drizzle. 
Carl's thin little cotton blouse and shirt were soon wet 
through. He felt chilled to the bone. He forgot 
mental terrors in his physical discomfort. But he must 
stay there till twelve — he was punishing himself and 
he was on his honour. Nothing had been said about 
rain — but it did not make any difference. When the 
study clock finally struck twelve a drenched little figure 
crept stiffly down off Mr. Pollock's tombstone, made 
its way into the manse and upstairs to bed. Carl's 
teeth were chattering. He thought he could never get 
warm again. 

He was warm enough when morning came. Jerry 
gave one startled look at his crimson face and then 
rushed to call his father. Mr. Meredith came hur- 
riedly, his own face ivory white from the pallor of his 
long night vigil by a death bed. He had not got home 
until daylight. He bent over his little lad anxiously. 

‘‘Carl, are you sick ?" he said. 

“That — tombstone — over there," said Carl, “it's — 
moving — about — it's coming — at — me — keep it — away 
— ^please." 

Mr. Meredith rushed to the telephone. In ten 
minutes Dr. Blythe was at the manse. Half an hour 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


310 

later a wire was sent to town for a trained nurse, and 
all the Glen knew that Carl Meredith was very ill with 
pneumonia and that Dr. Blythe had been seen to shake 
his head. 

Gilbert shook his head more than once in the fort- 
night that followed. Carl developed double pneu- 
monia. There was one night when Mr. Meredith 
paced his study floor, and Faith and Una huddled in 
their bedroom and cried, and Jerry, wild with remorse, 
refused to budge from the floor of the hall outside 
Carl’s door. Dr. Blythe and the nurse never left the 
bedside. They fought death gallantly until the red 
dawn and they won the victory. Carl rallied and 
passed the crisis in safety. The news was phoned 
about the waiting Glen and people found out how much 
they really loved their minister and his children. 

*T haven’t had one decent night’s sleep since I heard 
the child was sick,” Miss Cornelia told Anne, “and 
Mary Vance has cried until those queer eyes of hers 
looked like burnt holes in a blanket. Is it true that 
Carl got pneumonia from staying out in the graveyard 
that wet night for a dare ?” 

“No. He was staying there to punish himself for 
cowardice in that affair of the Warren ghost. It seems 
they have a club for bringing themselves up, and they 
punish themselves when they do wrong. Jerry told 
Mr. Meredith all about it.” 

“The poor little souls,” said Miss Cornelia. 

Carl got better rapidly, for the congregation took 


CARL DOES PENANCE 311 

enough nourishing things to the manse to furnish 
forth a hospital. Norman Douglas drove up every 
evening with a dozen fresh eggs and a jar of Jersey 
cream. Sometimes he stayed an hour and bellowed 
arguments on predestination with Mr. Meredith in the 
study; oftener he drove on up to the hill that over- 
looked the Glen. 

On the day when Carl was able to come downstairs 
Mr. Meredith called all his children into the library 
and told them that they were to inflict no more punish- 
ments on themselves without first consulting him. 

“But Aunt Martha is always warning us that we 
mustn't disturb you," said Faith. 

“Never mind that. You must remember what I 
say, darlings. Your little club is all right in principle. 
But henceforth I am to be the judge who passes sen- 
tence." 

When Carl was able to go again to Rainbow Valley 
they had a special feast in his honour and the doctor 
came down and helped them with the fireworks. Mary 
Vance was there, too, but she did not tell any ghost 
stories. Miss Cornelia had given her a talking to on 
that subject which Mary would not forget in a hurry. 


CHAPTER XXXII 
Two Stubborn People 

R osemary west, on her way home from a 
music lesson at Ingleside, turned aside to the 
hidden spring in Rainbow Valley. She had not been 
there all summer; the beautiful little spot had no longer 
any allurement for her. The spirit of her young lover 
never came to the tryst now ; and the memories con- 
nected with John Meredith were too painful and poig- 
nant. But she had happened to glance backward up 
the valley and had seen Norman Douglas vaulting as 
airily as a stripling over the old stone dyke of the 
Bailey garden and thought he was on his way up the 
hill. If he overtook her she would have to walk home 
with him and she was not going to do that. So she 
slipped at once behind the maples of the spring, hoping 
he had not seen her and would pass on. 

But Norman had seen her and, what was more, was 
in pursuit of her. He had been wanting for some time 
to have a talk with Rosemary, but she had always, 
so it seemed, avoided him. Rosemary had never, at 
any time, liked Norman Douglas very well. His blus- 
ter, his temper, his noisy hilarity, had always antago- 
nized her. Long ago she had often wondered how 
312 


TWO STUBBORN PEOPLE 313 

Ellen could possibly be attracted to him. Norman 
Douglas was perfectly aware of her dislike and he 
chuckled over it. It never worried Norman if people 
did not like him. It did not even make him dislike 
them in return, for he took it as a kind of extorted 
compliment. He thought Rosemary a fine girl, and 
he meant to be an excellent, generous brother-in-law 
to her. But before he could be her brother-in-law he 
had to have a talk with her, so, having seen her leaving 
Ingleside as he stood in the doorway of a Glen store, 
he had straightway plunged into the valley to overtake 
her. 

Rosemary was sitting pensively on the maple seat 
where John Meredith had been sitting on that evening 
nearly a year ago. The tiny spring shimmered and 
dimpled under its fringe of ferns. Ruby-red gleams 
of sunset fell through the arching boughs. A tall 
clump of perfect asters grew at her side. The little 
spot was as dreamy and witching and evasive as any 
retreat of fairies or dryads in ancient forests. Into 
it Norman Douglas bounced, scattering and annihilat- 
ing its charm in a moment. His personality seemed to 
swallow the place up. There was simply nothing there 
but Norman Douglas, big, red-bearded, complacent. 

‘Uood evening,'' said Rosemary coldly, standing up. 

“ 'Evening, girl. Sit down again — sit down again. 
I want to have a talk with you. Bless the girl, what's 
she looking at me like that for? I don't want to eat 
you — I've had my supper. Sit down and be civil." 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


314 

can hear what you have to say quite as well here,’’ 
said Rosemary. 

‘^So you can, girl, if you use your ears. I only 
wanted you to be comfortable. You look so durned 
uncomfortable, standing there. Well, Fll sit anyway.” 

Norman accordingly sat down in the very place 
John Meredith had once sat. The contrast was so 
ludicrous that Rosemary was afraid she would go off 
into a peal of hysterical laughter over it. Norman cast 
his hat aside, placed his huge, red hands on his knees, 
and looked up at her with his eyes a-twinkle. 

‘^Come, girl, don’t be so stiff,” he said, ingratiat- 
ingly. When he liked he could be very ingratiating. 
^'Let’s have a reasonable, sensible, friendly chat. 
There’s something I want to ask you. Ellen says she 
won’t, so it’s up to me to do it.” 

Rosemary looked down at the spring, which seemed 
to have shrunk to the size of a dewdrop. Norman 
gazed at her in despair. 

*'Durn it all, you might help a fellow out a bit,” he 
burst forth. 

‘‘What is it you want me to help you say?” asked 
Rosemary scornfully. 

“You know as well as I do, girl. Don’t be putting 
on your tragedy airs. No wonder Ellen was scared to 
ask you. Look here, girl, Ellen and I want to marry 
each other. That’s plain English, isn’t it? Got that? 
And Ellen says she can’t unless you give her back some 


TWO STUBBORN PEOPLE 315 

tom-fool promise she made. Come now, will you do 
it? Will you do it?” 

“Yes,” said Rosemary. 

Norman bounced up and seized her reluctant hand. 

Good ! I knew you would — I told Ellen you would. 
I knew it would only take a minute. Now, girl, you 
go home and tell Ellen, and wedl have the wedding 
in a fortnight and you’ll come and live with us. We 
shan’t leave you to roost on that hill-top like a lonely 
crow — don’t you worry. I know you hate me, but. 
Lord, it’ll be great fun living with some one that hates 
me. Life’ll have some spice in it after this. Ellen 
will roast me and you’ll freeze me. I won’t have a 
dull moment.” 

Rosemary did not condescend to tell him that noth- 
ing would ever induce her to live in his house. She 
let him go striding back to the Glen, oozing delight 
and complacency, and she walked slowly up the hill 
home. She had known this was coming ever since she 
had returned from Kingsport, ^and found Norman 
Douglas established as a frequent evening caller. His 
name was never mentioned between her and Ellen, but 
the very avoidance of it was significant. It was not 
in Rosemary’s nature to feel bitter, or she would have 
felt very bitter. She was coldly civil to Norman, and 
she made no difference in any way with Ellen. But 
Ellen had not found much comfort in her second court- 
ship. 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


316 

She was in the garden, attended by St. George, 
when Rosemary came home. The two sisters met in 
the dahlia walk. St. George sat down on the gravel 
walk between them and folded his glossy black tail 
gracefully around his white paws, with all the indiffer- 
ence of a well-fed, well-bred, well-groomed cat. 

“Did you ever see such dahlias?” demanded Ellen 
proudly. “They are just the finest weVe ever had.” 

Rosemary had never cared for dahlias. Their pres- 
ence in the garden was her concession to Ellen’s taste. 
She noticed one huge mottled one of crimson and 
yellow that lorded it over all the others. 

“That dahlia,” she said, pointing to it, “is exactly 
like Norman Douglas. It might easily be his twin 
brother.” 

Ellen’s dark-browed face flushed. She admired the 
dahlia in question, but she knew Rosemary did not, 
and that no compliment was intended. But she dared 
not resent Rosemary’s speech — poor Ellen dared not 
resent anything just then. And it was the first time 
Rosemary had ever mentioned Norman’s name to her. 
She felt that this portended something. 

“I met Norman Douglas in the valley,” said Rose- 
mary, looking straight at her sister, “and he told me 
you and he wanted to be married — if I would give you 
permission.” 

“Yes? What did you say?” asked Ellen, trying to 
speak naturally and off-handedly, and failing com- 
pletely. She could not meet Rosemary’s eyes. She 


TWO STUBBORN PEOPLE 


317 

looked down at St. George’s sleek back and felt hor- 
ribly afraid. Rosemary had either said she would or 
she wouldn’t. If she would Ellen would feel so 
ashamed and remorseful that she would be a very un- 
comfortable bride-elect; and if she wouldn’t — well, 
Ellen had once learned to live without Norman Doug- 
las, but she had forgotten the lesson and felt that she 
could never learn it again. 

''I said that as far as I was concerned you were at 
full liberty to marry each other as soon as you liked,” 
said Rosemary. 

‘^Thank you,” said Ellen, still looking at St. George. 

Rosemary’s face softened. 

hope you’ll be happy, Ellen,” she said gently. 

‘^Oh, Rosemary,” Ellen looked up in distress, ‘Tm 
so ashamed — I don’t deserve it — after all I said to 
you” — 

“We won’t speak about that,” said Rosemary hur- 
riedly and decidedly. 

“But — but,” persisted Ellen, “you are free now, 
too — and it’s not too late — ^John Meredith” — 

“Ellen West!” Rosemary had a little spark of 
temper under all her sweetness and it flashed forth 
now in her blue eyes. “Have you quite lost your senses 
in every respect? Do you suppose for an instant that 
/ am going to go to John Meredith and say meekly, 
Tlease, sir. I’ve changed my mind and please, sir, I 
hope you haven’t changed yours.’ Is that what you 
want me to do?’^ - 


3i8 rainbow valley ) 

‘‘No — no — but a little — encouragement — he would 
come back’^ — 

“Never. He despises me — and rightly. No more 
of this, Ellen. I bear you no grudge — marry whom , 
you like. But no meddling in my affairs.” 

“Then you must come and live with me,” said Ellen. 
“I shall not leave you here alone.” 

“Do you really think that I would go and live in ; 
Norman Douglas’ house?” 

“Why not?” cried Ellen, half angrily, despite her ' 

humiliation. | 

Rosemary began to laugh. j 

“Ellen, I thought you had a sense of humour. Can ! 
you see me doing it ?” | 

“I don’t see why you wouldn’t. His house is big \ 
enough — you’d have your share of it to yourself — he ! 
wouldn’t interfere.” • 

“Ellen, the thing is not to be thought of. Don’t | 
bring this up again.” 

“Then,” said Ellen coldly, and determinedly, “I ^ 
shall not marry him. I shall not leave you here alone. i 
That is all there is to be said about it.” 

“Nonsense, Ellen.” 

“It is not nonsense. It is my firm decision. It 
would be absurd for you to think of living here by 
yourself — a mile from any other house. If you won’t 
come with me I’ll stay with you. Now, we won’t 
argue the matter, so don’t try.” 


TWO STUBBORN PEOPLE 


319 

“I shall leave Norman to do the arguing/' said Rose- 
mary. 

'Til deal with Norman. I can manage him. I 
would never have asked you to give me back my 
promise — never — but I had to tell Norman why I 
couldn't marry him and he said he would ask you. I 
couldn’t prevent him. You need not suppose you are 
the only person in the world who possesses self-respect. 
I never dreamed of marrying and leaving you here 
alone. And you’ll find I can be as determined as your- 
self.” 

Rosemary turned away and went into the house, 
with shrug of her shoulders. Ellen looked down at 
St. George, who had never blinked an eyelash or 
stirred a whisker during the whole interview. 

“St. George, this world would be a dull place with- 
out the men, I’ll admit, but I’m almost tempted to wish 
there wasn’t one of ’em in it. Look at the trouble and 
bother they’ve made right here, George, — torn our 
happy old life completely up by the roots. Saint. John 
Meredith began it and Norman Douglas has finished 
it. And now both of them have to go into limbo. 
Norman is the only man I ever met who agrees with 
me that the Kaiser of Germany is the most dangerous 
creature alive on this earth — and I can’t marry this 
sensible person because my sister is stubborn and I’m 
stubborner. Mark my words, St. George, the minister 
would come back if she raised her little finger. But 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


320 

she won’t, George — she’ll never do it — she won’t even 
crook it — and I don’t dare meddle, Saint. I won’t 
sulk, George ; Rosemary didn’t sulk, so I’m determined 
I won’t either. Saint; Norman will tear up the turf, < 
but the long and short of it is, St. George, that all of j 
us old fools must just stop thinking of marrying. < 
Well, well, 'despair is a free man, hope is a slave,’ f 
Saint. So now come into the house, George, and I’ll j 
solace you with a saucerful of cream. Then there will 
be one happy and contented creature on this hill at 
least.” 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


Carl Is — Not — Whipped 

I A HERE is something I think I ought to tell you,” 

X said Mary Vance mysteriously. 

She and Faith and Una were walking arm in arm 
through the village, having foregathered at Mr. 
Flagg’s store. Una and Faith exchanged looks which 
said, ''Now something disagreeable is coming.” When 
Mary Vance thought she ought to tell them things 
there was seldom much pleasure in the hearing. They 
often wondered why they kept on liking Mary Vance 
— for like her they did, in spite of everything. To be 
sure, she was generally a stimulating and agreeable 
companion. If only she would not have those convic- 
tions that it was her duty to tell them things I 

‘*Do you know that Rosemary West won’t marry 
your pa because she thinks you are such a wild lot? 
She’s afraid she couldn’t bring you up right and so 
she turned him down.” 

Una’s heart thrilled with secret exultation. She was 
very glad to hear that Miss West would not marry her 
father. But Faith was rather disappointed. 

‘‘How do you know ?” she asked. 

“Oh, everybody’s saying it. I heard Mrs. Elliott 
321 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


322 


talking it over with Mrs. Doctor. They thought I 
was too far away to hear, but Fve got ears like a cat’s. 
Mrs. Elliott said she hadn’t a doubt that Rosemary 
was afraid to try stepmothering you because you’d got 
such a reputation. Your pa never goes up the hill 
now. Neither does Norman Douglas. Folks say 
Ellen has jilted him just to get square with him for 
jilting her ages ago. But Norman is going about de- 
claring he’ll get her yet. And I think you ought to 
know you’ve spoiled your pa’s match and I think it’s 
a pity, for he’s bound to marry somebody before long, 
and Rosemary West would have been the best wife I 
know of for him.” 

‘You told me all stepmothers were cruel and 
wicked,” said Una. 

“Oh — well,” said Mary rather confusedly, “they’re 
mostly awful cranky, I know. But Rosemary West 
couldn’t be very mean to any one. I tell you if your 
pa turns round and marries Emmeline Drew you’ll 
wish you’d behaved yourselves better and not fright- 
ened Rosemary out of it. It’s awful that you’ve got 
such a reputation that no decent woman’ll marry your 
pa on account of you. Of course, 1 know that half 
the yarns that are told about you ain’t true. But give 
a dog a bad name. Why, some folks are saying that 
it was Jerry and Carl that threw the stones through 
Mrs. Stimson’s window the other night when it was 
really them two Boyd boys. But I’m afraid it was 
Carl that put the eel in old Mrs. Carr’s buggy, though 


j 


CARL IS— NOT— WHIPPED 


323 

I said at first I wouldn’t believe it until I’d better proof 
than old Kitty Alec’s word. I told Mrs. Elliott so 
right to her face.” 

“What did Carl do?” cried Faith. 

“Well, they say — now, mind. I’m only telling you 
what people say — so there’s no use in your blaming 
me for it — that Carl and a lot of other boys were 
fishing eels over the bridge one evening last week. 
Mrs. Carr drove past in that old rattletrap buggy of 
hers with the open back. And Carl he just up and 
threw a big eel into the back. When poor old Mrs. 
Carr was driving up the hill by Ingleside that eel 
came squirming out between her feet. She thought 
it was a snake and she just give one awful screech and 
stood up and jumped out clean over the wheels. The 
horse bolted, but it went home and no damage was 
done. But Mrs. Carr jarred her legs most terrible, 
and has had nervous spasms ever since whenever she 
thinks of the eel. Say, it was a rotten trick to play on 
the poor old soul. She’s a decent body, if she is as 
queer as Dick’s hat band.” 

Faith and Una looked at each other again. This 
was a matter for the Good-Conduct Club. They would 
not talk it over with Mary. 

“There goes your pa,” said Mary as Mr. Meredith 
passed them, “and never seeing us no more’n if we 
weren’t here. Well, I’m getting so’s I don’t mind it. 
But there are folks who do.” 

Mr. Meredith had not seen them, but he was not 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


324 

walking along in his usual dreamy and abstracted 
fashion. He strode up the hill in agitation and dis- 
tress. Mrs. Alec Davis had just told him the story 
of Carl and the eel. She had been very indignant 
about it. Old Mrs. Carr was her third cousin. Mr. 
Meredith was more than indignant. He was hurt and 
shocked. He had not thought Carl would do anything 
like this. He was not inclined to be hard on pranks 
of heedlessness or forgetfulness, but this was different. 
This had a nasty tang in it. When he reached home 
he found Carl on the lawn, patiently studying the 
habits and customs of a colony of wasps. Calling him 
into the study Mr. Meredith confronted him, with a 
sterner face than any of his children had ever seen 
before, and asked him if the story were true. 

‘‘Yes,” said Carl, flushing, but meeting his father’s 
eye bravely. 

Mr. Meredith groaned. He had hoped that there 
had been at least exaggeration. 

“Tell me the whole matter,” he said. 

“The boys were fishing for eels over the bridge,” 
said Carl. “Link Drew had caught a whopper — I 
mean an awful big one — the biggest eel I ever saw. 
He caught it right at the start and it had been lying 
in his basket a long time, still as still. I thought it 
was dead, honest I did. Then old Mrs. Carr drove 
over the bridge and she called us all young varmints 
and told us to go home. And we hadn’t said a word 
to her, father, truly. So when she drove back again. 


CARL IS— NOT— WHIPPED 325 

after going to the store, the boys dared me to put 
Link’s eel in her buggy. I thought it was so dead it 
couldn’t hurt her and I threw it in. Then the eel 
came to life on the hill and we heard her scream and 
saw her jump out. I was awful sorry. That’s all, 
father.” 

It was not quite as bad as Mr. Meredith had feared, 
but it was quite bad enough. ‘T must punish you, 
Carl,” he said sorrowfully. 

‘‘Yes, I know, father.” 

“I — I must whip you.” 

Carl winced. He had never been whipped. Then, 
seeing how badly his father felt, he said cheerfully, 

“All right, father.” 

Mr. Meredith misunderstood his cheerfulness and 
thought him insensible. He told Carl to come to the 
study after supper, and when the boy had gone out 
he flung himself into his chair and groaned again. He 
dreaded the evening sevenfold more than Carl did. 
The poor minister did not even know what he should 
whip his boy with. What was used to whip boys? 
Rods? Canes? No, that would be too brutal. A 
limber switch, then? And he, John Meredith, must 
hie him to the woods and cut one. It was an abomi- 
nable thought. Then a picture presented itself un- 
bidden to his mind. He saw Mrs. Carr’s wizened, 
nut-cracker little face at the appearance of that re- 
viving eel — he saw her sailing witch-like over the 
buggy wheels. Before he could prevent himself the 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


326 

minister laughed. Then he was angry with himself 
and angrier still with Carl. He would get that switch 
at once — and it must not be too limber, after all. 

Carl was talking the matter over in the graveyard 
with Faith and Una, who had just come home. They 
were horrified at the idea of his being whipped — and 
by father, who had never done such a thing ! But they 
agreed soberly that it was just. 

*‘You know it was a dreadful thing to do,’’ sighed 
Faith. ‘"And you never owned up in the club.” 

‘T forgot,” said Carl. ‘‘Besides, I didn’t think any 
harm came of it. I didn’t know she jarred her legs. 
But I’m to be whipped and that will make things 
square.” 

“Will it hurt — ^very much?” said Una, slipping her 
hand into Carl’s. 

“Oh, not so much, I guess,” said Carl gamely. “Any- 
how, I’m not going to cry, no matter how much it 
hurts. It would make father feel so bad, if I did. 
He’s all cut up now. I wish I could whip myself hard 
enough and save him doing it.” 

After supper, at which Carl had eaten little and Mr. 
Meredith nothing at all, both went silently into the 
study. The switch lay on the table. Mr. Meredith 
had had a bad time getting a switch to suit him. He 
cut one, then felt it was too slender. Carl had done 
a really indefensible thing. Then he cut another — 
it was far too thick. After all, Carl had thought the 
eel was dead. The third one suited him better; hut 


CARL IS— NOT— WHIPPED 


327 

as he picked it up from the table it seemed very thick 
and heavy, — more like a stick than a switch. 

“Hold out your hand,’^ he said to Carl. 

Carl threw back his head and held out his hand 
unflinchingly. But he was not very old and he could 
not quite keep a little fear out of his eyes. Mr. 
Meredith looked down into those eyes — why, they were 
Cecilia^s eyes — ^her very eyes — and in them was the 
selfsame 'expression he had once seen in Cecilia’s eyes 
when she had come to him to tell him something she 
had been a little afraid to tell him. Plere were her 
eyes in Carl’s little, white face — and six weeks ago 
he had thought, through one endless, terrible night, 
that his little lad was dying. 

John Meredith threw down the switch. 

“Go,” he said, “I cannot whip you.” 

Carl fled to the graveyard, feeling that the look on 
his father’s face was worse than any whipping. 

“Is it over so soon?” asked Faith. She and Una 
had been holding hands and setting teeth on the Pol- 
lock tombstone. 

“He — he didn’t whip me at all,” said Carl with a 
sob, “and — I wish he had — and he’s in there, feeling 
just awful.” 

Una slipped away. Her heart yearned to comfort 
her father. As noiselessly as a little gray mouse she 
opened the study door and crept in. The room was 
dark with twilight. Her father was sitting at his desk. 
His back was towards her — his head was in his hands. 


328 RAINBOW VALLEY 

He was talking to himself — broken, anguished words 
— but Una heard — heard and understood, with the 
sudden illumination that comes to sensitive, un- 
mothered children. As silently as she had come in 
she slipped out and closed the door. John Meredith 
went on talking out his pain in what he deemed his 
undisturbed solitude. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


Una Visits the Hill 

U NA went upstairs. Carl and Faith were already 
on their way through the early moonlight to 
Rainbow Valley, having heard therefrom the elfin lilt 
of Jerry's jews-harp and having guessed that the 
Blythes were there and fun afoot. Una had no wish 
to go. She sought her own room first where she sat 
down on her bed and had a little cry. She did not 
want anybody to come in her dear mother’s place. 
She did not want a stepmother who would hate her 
and make her father hate her. But father was so 
desperately unhappy — and if she could do anything 
to make him happier she must do it. There was only 
one thing she could do — and she had known the mo- 
ment she had left the study that she must do it. But 
it was a very hard thing to do. 

After Una cried her heart out she wiped her eyes 
and went to the spare room. It was dark and rather 
musty, for the blind had not been drawn up nor the 
window opened for a long time. Aunt Martha was 
no fresh-air fiend. But as nobody ever thought of 
shutting a door in the manse this did not matter so 
much, save when some unfortunate minister came to 
329 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


330 

stay all night and was compelled to breathe the spare 
room atmosphere. 

There was a closet in the spare room and far back in 
the closet a gray silk dress was hanging. Una went 
into the closet and shut the door, went down on her 
knees and pressed her face against the soft silken 
folds. It had been her mother’s wedding dress. It 
was still full of a sweet, faint, haunting perfume, like 
lingering love. Una always felt very close to her 
mother there — as if she were kneeling at her feet 
with head in her lap. She went there once in a long 
while when life was too hard. 

^‘Mother,” she whispered to the gray silk gown, ‘T 
will never forget you, mother, and I’ll always love 
you best. But I have to do it, mother, because father 
is so very unhappy. I know you wouldn’t want him 
to be unhappy. And I will be very good to her, 
mother, and try to love her, even if she is like Mary 
Vance said stepmothers always were.” 

Una carried some fine, spiritual strength away from 
her secret shrine. She slept peacefully that night with 
the tear stains still glistening on her sweet, serious, 
little face. 

The next afternoon she put on her best dress and 
hat. They were shabby enough. Every other little 
girl in the Glen had new clothes that summer except 
Faith and Una. Mary Vance had a lovely dress of 
white embroidered lawn, with scarlet silk sash and 
shoulder bows. But to-day Una did not mind her 


UNA VISITS THE HILL 


331 

shabbiness. She only wanted to be very neat. She 
washed her face carefully. She brushed her brown hair 
until it was as smooth as satin. She tied her shoelaces 
carefully, having first sewed up two runs in her one 
pair of good stockings. She would have liked to 
black her shoes, but she could not find any blacking. 
Finally, she slipped away from the manse, down 
through Rainbow Valley, up through the whispering 
woods, and out to the road that ran past the house 
on the hill. It was quite a long walk and Una was 
tired and warm when she got there. 

She saw Rosemary West sitting under a tree in the 
garden and stole past the dahlia beds to her. Rose- 
mary had a book in her lap, but she was gazing afar 
across the harbour and her thoughts were sorrowful 
enough. Life had not been pleasant lately in the 
house on the hill. Ellen had not sulked — Ellen had 
been a brick. But things can be felt that are never said 
and at times the silence between the two women was 
intolerably eloquent. All the many familiar things 
that had once made life sweet had a flavour of bitter- 
ness now. Norman Douglas made periodical irrup- 
tions also, bullying and coaxing Ellen by turns. It 
would end, Rosemary believed, by his dragging Ellen 
oE with him some day, and Rosemary felt that she 
would be almost glad when it happened. Existence 
would be horribly lonely then, but it would be no 
longer charged with dynamite. 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


332 

She was roused from her unpleasant reverie by a 
timid little touch on her shoulder. Turning, she saw 
Una Meredith. 

‘‘Why, Una, dear, did you walk up here in all this 

heatr^ 

“Yes,^* said Una, “I came to — I came to” — 

But she found it very hard to say what she had 
come to do. Her voice failed — her eyes filled with 
tears. 

“Why, Una, little girl, what is the trouble? Don't 
be afraid to tell me.” 

Rosemary put her arm around the thin little form 
and drew the child close to her. Her eyes were very 
beautiful — her touch so tender that Una found cour- 
age. 

“I came — to ask you — to marry father,” she 
gasped. 

Rosemary was silent for a moment from sheer 
dumbfounderment. She stared at Una blankly. 

“Oh, don't be angry, please, dear Miss West,” said 
Una, pleadingly. “You see, everybody is saying that 
you wouldn’t marry father because we are so bad. He 
is very unhappy about it. So I thought I would come 
and tell you that we are never bad on purpose. And 
if you will only marry father we will all try to be 
good and do just what you tell us. I’m sure you won’t 
have any trouble with us. Please, Miss West.” 

Rosemary had been thinking rapidly. Gossipping 
surmise, she saw, had put this mistaken idea into 


UNA VISITS THE HILL 333 

Una’s mind. She must be perfectly frank and sincere 
with the child. 

‘'Una, dear,” she said softly. “It isn’t because of 
you poor little souls that I cannot be your father’s 
wife. I never thought of such a thing. You are not 
bad — I never supposed you were. There — there was 
another reason altogether, Una.” 

“Don’t you like father?” asked Una, lifting re- 
proachful eyes. “Oh, Miss West, you don’t know 
how nice he is. I’m sure he’d make you a qood hus- 
band.” 

Even in the midst of her perplexity and distress 
Rosemary couldn’t help a twisted, little smile. 

“Oh, don’t laugh. Miss West,” Una cried passion- 
ately. “Father feels dreadful about it.” 

“I think you’re mistaken, dear,” said Rosemary. 

“I’m not. I’m sure I’m not. Oh, Miss West, 
father was going to whip Carl yesterday — Carl had 
been naughty — and father couldn’t do it because you 
see he had no practice in whipping. So when Carl 
came out and told us father felt so bad, I slipped into 
the study to see if I could help him — he likes me to 
comfort him. Miss West — and he didn’t hear me come 
in and I heard what he was saying. I’ll tell you. Miss 
West, if you’ll let me whisper it in your ear.” 

Una whispered earnestly. Rosemary’s face turned 
crimson. So John Meredith still cared. He hadn’t 
changed his mind. And he must care intensely if he 
had said that — care more than she had ever supposed 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


334 

he did. She sat still for a moment, stroking Una’s 
hair. Then she said, 

‘'Will you take a little letter from me to your father, 
Una?” 

“Oh, are you going to marry him. Miss West?” 
asked Una eagerly. 

“Perhaps — if he really wants me to,” said Rose- 
mary, blushing again. 

“Pm glad — I’m glad,” said Una bravely. Then she 
looked up, with quivering lips. “Oh, Miss West, you 
won’t turn father against us — ^you won’t make him 
hate us, will you?” she said beseechingly. 

Rosemary stared again. 

“Una Meredith ! Do you think I would do such a 
thing? Whatever put such an idea into your head?” 

“Mary Vance said stepmothers were all like that — 
and that they all hated their stepchildren and made 
their father hate them — she said they just couldn’t 
help it — ^just being stepmothers made them like that” — 

“You poor child! And yet you came up here and 
asked me to marry your father because you wanted to 
make him happy? You’re a darling — a heroine — as 
Ellen would say, you’re a brick. Now listen to me 
very closely, dearest. Mary Vance is a silly little girl 
who doesn’t know very much and she is dreadfully 
mistaken about some things. I would never dream 
of trying to turn your father against you. I would 
love you all dearly. I don’t want to take your own 
mother’s place — she must always have that in your 


I UNA VISITS THE HILL 335 

I hearts. But neither have I any intention of being a 
stepmother. I want to be your friend and helper and 
chum. Don't you think that would be nice, Una — if 
you and Faith and Carl and Jerry could just think 
of me as a good jolly chum — a big older sister?” 

! ''Oh, it would be lovely,” cried Una, with a trans- 

j figured face. She flung her arms impulsively round 
! Rosemary’s neck. She was so happy that she felt as 
c if she could fly on wings. 

"Do the others — do Faith and the boys have the 
I same idea you had about stepmothers?” 

"No. Faith never believed Mary Vance. I was 
dreadfully foolish to believe her, either. Faith loves 
you already — she has loved you ever since poor Adam 
was eaten. And Jerry and Carl will think it is jolly. 
Oh, Miss West, when you come to live with us, will 
you — could you — ^teach me to cook — a little — and sew 
— and — and — and do things ? I don’t know anything. 
I won’t be much trouble — I’ll try to learn fast.” 

"Darling, I’ll teach you and help you all I can. Now, 
you won’t say a word to anybody about this, will you 
— not even to Faith, until your father himself tells 
you you may ? And you’ll stay and have tea with me ?” 

"Oh, thank you — but — ^but — ^I think I’d rather go 
right back and take the letter to father,” faltered Una. 
"You see, he’ll be glad that much sooner, Miss West.” 

"I see,” said Rosemary. She went to the house, 
wrote a note and gave it to Una. When that small 
damsel had run off, a palpitating bundle of happiness. 


336 RAINBOW VALLEY 


Rosemary went to Ellen, who was shelling peas on the 
back porch. 

'‘Ellen,” she said, “Una Meredith has just been 
here to ask me to marry her father.” 

Ellen looked up and read her sister’s face. 

“And you’re going to ?” she said. 

“It’s quite likely.” 

Ellen went on shelling peas for a few minutes. Then 
she suddenly put her hands up to her own face. There 
were tears in her black-browed eyes. 

“I — I hope we’ll all be happy,” she said between 
a sob and a laugh. 

Down at the manse Una Meredith, warm, rosy, 
triumphant, marched boldly into her father’s study 
and laid a letter on the desk before him. His pale 
face flushed as he saw the clear, fine, handwriting he 
knew so well. He opened the letter. It was very 
short — ^but he shed twenty years as he read it. Rose- 
mary asked him if he could meet her that evening at 
sunset by the spring in Rainbow Valley. 


CHAPTER XXXV 


‘‘Let the Piper Come’^ 

A so/' said Miss Cornelia, “the double wed- 
jljL ding is to be sometime about the middle of 
this month/' 

There was a faint chill in the air of the early Sep- 
tember evening, so Anne had lighted her ever ready 
fire of driftwood in the big living room, and she and 
Miss Cornelia basked in its fairy flicker. 

“It is so delightful — especially in regard to Mr. 
Meredith and Rosemary," said Anne. “I'm as happy 
in the thought of it, as I was when I was getting mar- 
ried myself. I felt exactly like a bride again last 
evening when I was up on the hill seeing Rosemary’s 
trousseau." 

“They tell me her things are fine enough for a 
princess,” said Susan from a shadowy corner where 
she was cuddling her brown boy. “I have been in- 
vited up to see them also and I intend to go some eve- 
ning. I understand that Rosemary is to wear white 
silk and a veil, but Ellen is to be married in navy blue. 
I have no doubt, Mrs. Dr. dear, that that is very 
sensible of her, but for my own part I have always 
felt that if I were ever married I would prefer the 
white and the veil, as being more bride-like." 

337 


338 RAINBOW VALLEY 

A vision of Susan in ‘Vhite and a veil'’ presented 
itself before Anne’s inner vision and was almost too 
much for her. 

“As for Mr. Meredith,” said Miss Cornelia, “even 
his engagement has made a different man of him. He 
isn’t half so dreamy and absent-minded, believe me. 
I was so relieved when I heard that he had decided to 
close the manse and let the children visit round while 
he was away on his honeymoon. If he had left them 
and old Aunt Martha there alone for a month I should 
have expected to wake every morning and see the 
place burned down.” 

“Aunt Martha and Jerry are coming here,” said 
Anne. “Carl is going to Elder Clow’s. I haven’t 
heard where the girls are going.” 

“Oh, I’m going to take them,” said Miss Cornelia. 
“Of course I was glad to, but Mary would have given 
me no peace till I asked them any way. The Ladies’ 
Aid is going to clean the manse from top to bottom 
before the bride and groom come back, and Norman 
Douglas has arranged to fill the cellar with vegetables. 
Nobody ever saw or heard anything quite like Norman 
Douglas these days, believe me. He’s so tickled that 
he’s going to marry Ellen West after wanting her all 
his life. If / was Ellen — but then. I’m not, and if 
she is satisfied I can very well be. I heard her say 
years ago when she was a schoolgirl that she didn’t 
want a tame puppy for a husband. There’s nothing 
tame about Norman, believe meJ^ 


! ‘‘LET THE PIPER COME” 339 

I The sun was setting over Rainbow Valley. The 
i pond was wearing a wonderful tissue of purple and 
gold and green and crimson. A faint blue haze rested 
on the eastern hill, over which a great, pale, round 
i moon was just floating up like a silver bubble. 

I They were all there, squatted in the little open glade 
— Faith and Una, Jerry and Carl, Jem and Walter, 

' Nan and Di, and Mary Vance. They had been having 
j a special celebration, for it would be Jem’s last evening 
i in Rainbow Valley. On the morrow he would leave 
; for Charlottetown to attend Queen’s Academy. Their 
; charmed circle would be broken; and, in spite of the 
I jollity of their little festival, there was a hint of sor- 
row in every gay young heart. 

“See — there is a great golden palace over there in 
the sunset,” said Walter, pointing. “Look at the shin- 
ing towers — and the crimson banners streaming from 
them. Perhaps a conqueror is riding home from 
battle — and they are hanging them out to do honour 
to him.” 

“Oh, I wish we had the old days back again,” ex- 
claimed Jem. “I’d love to be a soldier — a great, 
triumphant general. I’d give everything to see a big 
battle.” 

Well, Jem was to be a soldier and see a greater 
battle than had ever been fought in the world ; but that 
was as yet far in the future; and the mother, whose 
first-born son he was, was wont to look on her boys 
and thank God that the “brave days of old,” which 


RAINBOW VALLEY 


340 

Jem longed for, were gone forever, and that never 
would it be necessary for the sons of Canada to ride 
forth to battle ‘'for the ashes of their fathers and the 
temples of their gods/’ 

The shadow of the Great Conflict had not yet made 
felt any forerunner of its chill. The lads who were 
to fight, and perhaps fall, on the fields of France and 
Flanders, Gallipoli and Palestine, were still roguish 
schoolboys with a fair life in prospect before them: 
the girls whose hearts were to be wrung were yet fair 
little maidens a-star with hopes and dreams. 

Slowly the banners of the sunset city gave up their 
crimson and gold; slowly the conqueror’s pageant 
faded out. Twilight crept over the valley and the 
little group grew silent. Walter had been reading 
again that day in his beloved book of myths and he 
remembered how he had once fancied the Pied Piper 
coming down the valley on an evening just like this. 

He began to speak dreamily, partly because he 
wanted to thrill his companions a little, partly because 
something apart from him seemed to be speaking 
through his lips. 

“The Piper is coming nearer,” he said, “he is nearer 
than he was that evening I saw him before. His long, 
shadowy cloak is blowing around him. He pipes — he 
pipes — and we must follow — Jem and Carl and Jerry 
and I — round and round the world. Listen — listen — 
can’t you hear his wild music?” 

The girls shivered. 


“LET THE PIPER COME’’ 


341 

“You know you’re only pretending,” protested Mary 
Vance, “and I wish you wouldn’t. You make it too 
real. I hate that old Piper of yours.” 

But Jem sprang up with a gay laugh. He stood on 
a little hillock, tall and splendid, with his open brow 
and his fearless eyes. There were thousands like him 
all over the land of the maple. 

“Let the Piper come and welcome,” he cried, waving 
his hand, “/’ll follow him gladly round and round 
the world.” 


The End 


J 

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